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Chapter Text

The sway of the trireme was a lament. The wood groaned under the pressure of the waves, and Cadmus cursed the weakness of his own body for insisting on joining the sickening dance. He forced his eyelids shut, but the smell was a prison: salt, sea spray, and the rancid mix of rotten fish and the sweat of men confined for too long. In the claustrophobic cabin, the dull thud of waves against the hull was a drum hammering in his ears, an irregular rhythm that shattered any attempt at discipline.

Above, the heavy, rhythmic steps of the soldiers on deck were an affront. Order. Control. Everything his stomach, now a fist clenched in his throat, refused to obey.

He turned on the narrow cot, the coarse fabric scratching his skin. Cold sweat trickled down his temples. His trembling hands buried themselves under the rough blanket. Control yourself, his uncle's voice echoed in his mind, cold as the ice of Taygetus. A Spartan masters his body. But the sea was no training ground. The sea did not obey. Outside, the howl of the wind carried fragments of voices, whispers that dissolved into the chaos.

Demosthenes, he thought. The general would be on deck, his firm voice imposing order on the storm itself. Cadmus tried to cling to that image of control, but sleep dragged him to a place where there was no control at all.

He was back in the Krypteia. The moon sliced the sky like a scythe. The forest of Taygetus was a damp tangle, the air heavy with the scent of earth, decaying leaves, and something else... a musky, wild odor. He was running, his feet sinking into the mud. Screams echoed behind him—not words, just guttural, desperate sounds. He knew what came next. It always came.

I don't want to do this. The sentence died in his throat. He tried to close his eyes, but his hands were busy. They held something heavy. Warm. Sticky like fresh blood. The indistinct figures before him took shape, their eyes glowing with an inhuman light, gazes that stripped him to the soul. The weight of the blade became unbearable. A scream tore through the air—was it his own voice?—and the earth became soaked as the bodies dissolved into a swirl of shadows.

He woke up choking, his heart beating like a war drum. The cabin was still dark, but the sway of the ship confirmed that the hell was real. It took him a minute to realize the screams still echoing in his mind had come from his own lips. He looked at his hands—a warrior's hands, marked with scars and calluses—but at that moment they seemed fragile, alien, as if they belonged to another man.

Footsteps approached, firm and steady. The door opened. Demosthenes entered, bringing with him the clean scent of the storm, tinged with wine and olive oil. The lamp in his hand cast dancing shadows on his weary face, but his eyes shone with a determination that Cadmus, begrudgingly, admired. His gaze, trained to assess terrain and men, lingered for an instant on the glint of sweat on Cadmus’s forehead.

— The storm has delayed us, but Salamis is near. — The general's voice was a fact, not a consolation. He tossed a piece of dry bread onto his lap. — Eat. You look like a ghost.

Cadmus stared at the food, his throat tightening. The thought of chewing that dry paste made his stomach churn.

Demosthenes let out a short, humorless laugh.

— Come on deck. The Temple of Poseidon is shining like a beacon. Might be worth seeing before the gods decide to sink us for good.

Cadmus nodded but didn't move. The weight of the nightmare was a cold anchor in his soul. Demosthenes waited a moment, a silent concession, then left, closing the door carefully. Light escaped through the cracks. Cadmus stared at them, trying to forget that, beneath them, the dark waters swallowed everything, even memories.

He rose slowly, the floor cold and unsteady under his bare feet. In the corner, his father's bronze helmet gleamed faintly. It was older, of a style no longer in use. Heavier. The last link. He approached it and gave two sharp taps on the side.

Clang. Clang.

The metallic sound was a ritual. Something solid when everything else was falling apart.

Stepping onto the deck, the freezing wind hit him like a fist. He gripped the rail, his knuckles white. Then he saw it. The sea stretched out, grey and unforgiving. On the horizon, Cape Sounion rose, a finger of stone pointing at a leaden sky. Atop the cliff, the marble columns of the Temple of Poseidon were silhouetted against the clouds, so perfect it hurt. A chill ran down his spine, one that had nothing to do with the wind. It was the chill of feeling small, watched by something ancient and indifferent.

Demosthenes stood at the prow, still as a statue.

— It judges us, doesn't it? — he murmured, without turning.

Cadmus didn't answer. The temple did seem to be judging him. He took an almond from his pocket and chewed it slowly, the bitterness on his tongue trying to overcome the bitterness in his soul.

When the fog swallowed the horizon, they reached Salamis. The nervous laughter of the soldiers ceased, replaced by the heavy silence that precedes battles and funerals. The fog was a dirty veil over the sea, hiding what was left of Athens. The trireme crept into the Piraeus inlet. A thick chain blocked the entrance; the watchtowers, empty, were like dead eyes. No sound came from the city. Only shadows and, above the long walls, thin columns of smoke rose straight into the indifferent sky.

The crew disembarked with the slowness of defeated men. Boots sank into the wet sand.

— Three months in hell — a soldier grumbled, spitting into the water. — To arrive at a cemetery.

No one laughed. They lit fires with damp wood, the acrid smoke making their eyes water. Demosthenes disappeared with two scouts, returning at dusk, his face a granite mask, a scroll with broken seals in his hand.

— We are under quarantine — he announced to the small circle of officers, his voice devoid of emotion. — Orders from the assembly. No one in, no one out. Risk of "contamination."

The word hung in the air, heavy and indigestible. That night, around the trembling fire, the whispers began, as poisonous as the smoke. Cadmus sat apart, but the wind carried the fragments to him.

— Contamination? It's the plague, I tell you... It's come back to finish the job.

— Don't be an idiot. If it were the plague, the city would be burning, not silent — a hoplite cut in. — This is treason. The magistrates are sealing the gates so the people can't flee. Hunger makes even rats bite their masters.

A dry, feverish laugh echoed. It was from a young recruit.

— The city is devouring itself from within. But it's not the men. It's something else. There's something in the water...

Cadmus stood up and walked away, his stomach churning. Devouring itself from within. The phrase stuck in his mind, intertwining with the images of his nightmare: the bodies dissolving into shadows, the weight of the blade, the blood. They were the same thing. A city or a man, rotting from the inside out.

At that moment, a soldier abruptly stood, his face red with rage.

— I'm not going to starve to death on this beach! — he bellowed at Demosthenes. — If Athens doesn't want us, let its walls burn!

Demosthenes, who had been watching in silence, did not raise his voice. He moved with a lethal calm, his hand resting on the pommel of his gladius.

— You will die of old age before I allow a mutiny under my command. Sit down.

The soldier hesitated, measured the determination in the general's eyes, and sat, muttering. The tension on the beach grew as thick as the fog.

Demosthenes approached Cadmus, stopping beside him. Together, they looked at the faint lights of Athens, a sickly smear on the horizon.

— They've left us here to rot — Cadmus said, his voice hoarse. It wasn't a question.

— Yes — Demosthenes replied, handing him a wineskin. — Wine. Strong and sour. Drink. Tomorrow, we'll find out what kind of monsters we're facing. The ones inside the walls, or the ones already inside of us.

Cadmus took a long swallow. The liquid burned his throat, but it didn't extinguish the chill that came from his soul. Above them, the gulls cried out, their voices like an omen in the heavy air.

Chapter Text

Even after a week within the dry walls of Athens, the taste of salt lingered on Roxana’s lips, a clean memory of a world that no longer existed. Here, the air was a hot breath rising from the dusty streets, heavy with the murmur of discontent and the acrid smell of disease that clung to the alleys like a shroud.

She walked the Panathenaic Way, and the silence was the city’s broken meter. She stepped around the shrouded bodies of plague victims, left in the sun like offerings to an indifferent god. The wind, instead of scattering seeds, scattered scraps of papyrus bearing lists of the dead. On the walls, cries in charcoal: “The Delian League is a corpse!” and “Sparta will swallow us!”

The agora, once the city’s beating heart, was an open wound. Sunken-eyed vendors offered withered fruit for the price of gold. Great Athens seemed a hollow hull, and she, a grain of sand in that desert of apathy. The magistrates, drowning in their own crises, ignored her pleas.

Finally, on the fifth day, an unwelcome invitation. Still, an invitation.

Roxana rummaged through her trunk, not for a dress, but for armor. That night’s persona. She chose a simple tunic of a deep blue that accentuated the storm in her eyes and a thin white mantle over one shoulder. The contrast with her sun-scorched skin was a statement. Discreet earrings, a silver ring with green stones. She was a diplomat entering enemy territory.

As she made her way to the slopes of the Acropolis, she passed a group of aristocrats in immaculate tunics, laughing loudly as they carried amphorae to a symposium, indifferent to the hungry faces watching them from the shadows. Roxana felt her jaw clench. The injustice was a poorly written poem, and its author deserved the critique of steel.

Alcibiades’s residence was a marble monster. Roxana’s gaze fell on a vast Ionian tapestry that dominated the entrance: a goddess emerging from a lake, her beauty as breathtaking as it was cruel, surrounded by men drowning in her golden hair. A shiver ran down her spine. It was Athens.

The sounds of decay hit her: shrill laughter, the shattering of a cup, the groan of an out-of-tune lyre. A bloodshot-eyed servant guided her through corridors where the smell of spilled wine mixed with expensive incense, a futile attempt to perfume the rot. She moved forward, her steps firm, ignoring the bodies languidly arranged on cushions and the covetous gazes that followed her.

There, in the triclinium, Alcibiades reclined, a golden cup in fingers that gleamed with perfumed oil. His eyes fixed on her with a lazy, hungry intensity.

— Ah, the flower of Lesbos! — he exclaimed, rising with theatrical elegance. — Have you come to water my garden with your pleas?

— You know why I am here — Roxana said, her voice controlled, each syllable a polished stone.

He laughed, a sound that made the others fall silent.

— So serious! Politics can wait. First, wine. — He pulled her by the wrist, a casual possession. His fingers traced the outline of the scar on her arm. A light, probing touch. — Quite a mark… a slave? — he whispered, his hot breath smelling of wine.

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of power.

The sensation of his touch was like a branding iron. The memory of the whip and the salt burned under her skin. A taste of ashes filled her mouth. For an instant, the world vanished, and a cold, ancient voice hissed in her soul: Kill him. A sharp pain pierced her skull, but her face remained a mask of calm.

She tore her arm from his grasp, the movement sharp and final.

— I am an envoy from Lesbos. And I demand an audience.

Alcibiades held up his hands in a gesture of false surrender.

— Patience, my dear. Drink. Watch. Learn how power truly works in Athens.

He handed her a cup and turned his back. The real torment began. He made her wait. For hours. Roxana remained standing, motionless as a statue, the untouched cup in her hand, as the party unraveled like a festering wound. She saw a magistrate vomit into the fern pots. She heard Alcibiades tell a vulgar story about a merchant's wife, provoking cruel laughter. She listened to a poem recited with so much wine in the voice that the words stumbled over one another. He ignored her, but every so often, his eyes would meet hers, a glint of amusement questioning her: Have you given up yet?

Finally, when the night was spent, a servant summoned her to his private chambers. There, on a bed of scarlet fabrics, Alcibiades was half-naked, as insolent as a satyr.

— Tired of waiting? Sit. — He nodded toward a spot on the floor, as if speaking to a dog.

The rage was a brazier in Roxana’s stomach, but she swallowed the flames. Clenching her teeth, she sat in a chair across the room, creating a distance. He smiled at the small act of rebellion.

— Speak. I’m listening.

As she laid out the crisis in Lesbos, the crumbling alliance, the Spartan threat, his mask of indifference began to crack. Not from pity, but from calculation. She saw it: a hardening of his jaw when she mentioned the loss of tax revenues from Chios, a gleam in his eyes as they darted to the shadows. He cared, but not for the right reasons.

— I will present your case to the council — he said at last, his voice bored. — Don’t delude yourself. It will be buried. There are… greater urgencies.

— More urgent than your League being on the verge of collapse? — Roxana leaned forward, her voice a hiss.

He let out a dull laugh.

— Lesbos is a distant island. Here, laments are just background noise.

— Then we have nothing more to discuss. — She stood up.

— Wait. — The word stopped her at the door. He leaned back, pleased that he still had control. — Perhaps I can be of use in another matter. Something more… personal. A Macedonian trireme was recently captured… with a cargo of slaves from Pella.

Roxana’s heart stopped. The burning harbor, the bodies in the sea foam.

— Where? — The word came out scratched.

Alcibiades smiled, the grin of a predator savoring the moment. — Ask Pericles. He still pretends to care about the fate of… individuals. — He spat out the last word. — Now, why don’t you stay? The night is still young.

— Thank you — she said, her voice frigid. — I have more important matters.

She turned. Before she could reach the handle, the door burst open and a group of half-naked men stormed into the room. The drunkest of them bumped into her, knocking over her purse. Silver coins from Lesbos rolled and tinkled across the marble.

Alcibiades leaned down and picked one up. He held it between his thumb and forefinger.

— Pretty… — he murmured, turning it so she could see the effigy of her homeland. — But here in Athens, utterly worthless.

With a sudden flick, he tossed the coin into the fire where the remains of a roasted pig still crackled. The silver hissed and was swallowed by the flames.

Roxana did not give him the satisfaction of a reaction. She turned and walked out, her steps firm. The streets were darker, the weight of the city crushing her. Yet, a spark of determination burned hotter than Alcibiades's fire. He had given her a weapon without realizing it. A name: Pericles. And Roxana was an expert at using her enemies’ weapons against them.

Chapter Text

Two days of waiting. Finally, the port opened, not with relief, but with a sigh of smoke. The smell of salt mingled with that of tar and wet wood—the perfume of defeat. Ahead, six triremes lay like the carcasses of beached whales, their cracked hulls exposing twisted beams like broken bones. Intermittent fires still licked at their structures, a slow hunger devouring what was left. Tactically, it was a disaster. A vulnerable port.

They disembarked, the ground groaning under their feet. There was no time to feel the solidity of the earth. An Athenian garrison, led by a man with clouded eyes, moved to intercept them. The officer wore a cuirass so polished it reflected the flames, but his face was a grim mask. He wielded a scroll, the city's seal hanging from it like an axe.

— Demosthenes and his crew — he announced, his voice devoid of emotion. — By order of the Boule, your trireme is seized. You are to remain in confinement.

The order hung in the air, cold.

Demosthenes laughed. A dry sound, like a branch snapping.

— Good to see you, Bias. I see you've joined the circus as well.

— You know the procedure — the officer replied, his gaze deliberately avoiding Demosthenes's, a small act of insubordination that did not go unnoticed.

Behind Demosthenes, a soldier stepped forward. His mouth opened, but his voice was silenced by the wall of spears that rose, a hesitant and poorly coordinated movement. Cadmus bit the inside of his cheek. In Sparta, such disorder would be met with the whip. Here, it seemed to be the norm.

— That's enough! — Demosthenes's voice cut through the tension. He looked at his men, then at Bias's. — Men, lower your weapons. Lead the way.

They were herded like cattle through streets teeming with a chaos that pretended to be order. Troop after troop marched, but without the cohesive rhythm of an army—it was the frantic scurrying of ants in a disturbed colony. Cadmus watched, a stranger in a land devouring itself. A man shouted from atop an overturned cart. Women dragged chests, children cried, clutching eyeless rag dolls. A soldier ran past, a sack of grain leaking flour, or perhaps ash.

They were taken to a stone building, a cold place where the smell of mildew mixed with sour sweat. The men were pushed into collective cells. From the ceiling, a thick liquid dripped. Cadmus leaned against the cold, damp wall, his gaze following a spider weaving its web between the bars—a creature of patience and order in a place where time went to die.

The hours dragged on.

Finally, the echo of firm steps preceded the Polemarch's arrival. When he appeared, his figure resembled weathered steel: cold and scarred. He and Demosthenes faced each other through the bars, two lions sizing each other up.

— Late, Demosthenes — the Polemarch said, his voice a rough noise.

— Storm — Demosthenes retorted, his arms crossed. — What is this? My men treated like Thracian slaves?

The Polemarch let out a laugh that was pure poison.

— This? This is what's left. Syracuse… a disaster. The sea swallowed them. Alcibiades fled. The survivors babble about strange tides… Hysteria. But the fear is real.

— And what does that have to do with us?

— They need scapegoats! — The Polemarch stepped closer, his voice dropping to an urgent hiss, his eyes darting toward the guards at the end of the corridor. — Ships that didn't arrive in time. Orders that weren't followed. You and yours are the perfect scapegoat. — His gaze shifted and landed on Cadmus, a flicker of recognition and disgust. — And you brought a Spartan to our funeral. Bold.

Demosthenes gripped the bars, the veins in his neck bulging.

— You know perfectly well the purpose of my mission! You know who he is!

— I know! — the Polemarch cut in, casting a quick glance at the other cells. — But the rats in the walls don't. And the shadows listening to us don't either. Do you want me to shout to the whole city that you went to Ionia while our boys were dying in Syracuse?

Demosthenes let go of the bars, defeated.

— That's what I thought — the man continued, his anger giving way to a bitter weariness. — The rules of the game have changed. — The jingle of a single bronze key cut the silence. He didn't hand it over. He pressed it into Demosthenes's palm through the bars. — Pericles still has some influence. Perhaps. He's waiting for you. Go. Now. And leave through the back. I don't want your blood on my hands.

He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing.

The exit was swift. As they returned to the daylight, Cadmus stepped on a crushed fig, its red pulp staining the stone like fresh blood. A dozen guards loyal to the Polemarch waited for them, their faces impassive. They walked to the heart of Athens under an evening sky that looked like a bruise. In the distance, the Acropolis rose, golden and indifferent, a monument built on bones.

Cadmus looked back at the still-smoldering port. Demosthenes stopped, following his gaze.

— From a distance, it looks like the same city, doesn't it? — His voice was low, devoid of hope. — Don't be fooled.

Cadmus didn't answer. At that moment, a seagull landed on a nearby rock. Its wings, once white, were stained with soot. The bird shook itself, once, twice, but the dark stain remained.

Chapter Text

In the oppressive safety of the guest room, the scent of medicinal herbs and clean linen filled the air, a sterile contrast to the stench of death that hung over the city. The aroma of herbs was strong, but beneath it, Roxana caught a phantom trace of something sweeter. Jasmine. And the memory came in a rush, not as a dream, but as a tide pulling her toward a sun that no longer warmed her.

Five years earlier...

The sound of soft footsteps interrupted the rhythm of the mop on the stone floor. She looked up. Sappho stood under the archway of the entrance, her saffron-colored dress floating like a butterfly's wings. The poetess smiled, and Roxana gripped the wooden handle until her knuckles turned white.

— Roxana — Sappho called, her voice as soft as the rustle of laurel leaves. — Come. The sun is generous today.

She hesitated, wiping her dirty hands on her apron. In her world, kindness was the prelude to cruelty. Sappho's skin, when it touched hers, was soft, unmarred. A warmth she was not used to. Roxana pulled her arm back almost immediately, as if the touch could burn her.

They walked to the gardens, where the air was heavy with the perfume that had assaulted her in the present. At the end of the path, in a clearing, stood a solitary wooden easel. Upon it, a blank canvas waited.

— This is my refuge — Sappho said, her voice tinged with a melancholy Roxana recognized. — This war... sometimes, the only thing that still makes sense is this school. And you. — Her eyes reddened. — I know that silence can be a prison, Roxana. The face you show the world is strong, but I feel there is a song inside you that has not yet been sung. Perhaps today, it does not need words.

The recognition in those words struck her like a blow. Sappho saw her.

— I do not know what you want from me, my lady.

— Nothing you do not wish to give. And, by the gods, call me Sappho.

A fleeting, almost pained smile touched Roxana's lips.

— Sappho.

— Do you see this? — the poetess continued, gesturing to the canvas. — I believe that within us, there is a truth that words cannot reach. Poetry, music, painting... they are bridges. Paint what you see. Paint the beauty... or the lack of it. Paint your truth.

Roxana looked at the blank canvas. With hesitant fingers, she picked up a brush. The colors on the palette were vibrant, but her hand went straight for the charcoal, diluting it in water until it became an ink of shadows. a flash of memory—the smell of smoke and salt, the sound of wood crackling under fire—guided the first stroke.

And then, the song erupted. The strokes emerged, heavy and furious. Dark lines tore through the serene landscape. The green of the trees bled into blackness, the river became a murky reflection of a sky heavy with clouds that writhed like hands. When she finished, breathless, her chest burning, the wind carried a dry leaf to the canvas, sticking it to the wet ink like a scar.

Sappho examined the painting in silence, absorbing every brushstroke of despair. Then, she stepped closer and, without a word, began to recite, her voice a balm on the open wounds of the canvas.

Fear not the night, my daughter,

For in it, a lost sister sings.

In the lake's depths, in the river's silence,

A crownless queen spins your thread.

Her voice broke on the last line. Roxana didn't realize she was crying until she tasted salt on her lips. She looked up at Sappho and saw the tears streaming freely down the poetess's face. But in her eyes, there was no pity. There was a mirror.

Sappho did not wipe away her own tears; she let them stain her saffron dress.

— I used to see the world this way too... — she whispered, the confession a secret shared between two survivors. — Before I learned to lie to myself.

That night, Roxana sat on the studio floor, her charcoal-blackened fingers tracing verses onto a scroll. The words were not perfect, but they were hers—crooked, angry, full of exposed roots and heavy skies. They were the song Sappho had helped her find.

The memory faded, leaving a trail of jasmine and charcoal. Roxana opened her eyes. She was back in the silent room in Athens. She picked up a stylus and a wax tablet. Sappho's poem echoed in her mind. A crownless queen. The stylus felt as heavy as the brush had that day. And, for the first time since she had arrived, the words she wrote were not a lament, but the sharpening of a blade.

Chapter Text

The building was a ring of cold marble, a terrible tactical ground. The circular benches created countless blind spots, and the polished floor turned every footstep into an echo, betraying any movement. In the last row, wrapped in shadows that the architecture did not justify, a lone figure watched them.

The Polemarch raised an arm, blocking Cadmus’s path. His voice was low.

— He awaits you. You alone.

— I am certain Pericles will want my report — Demosthenes retorted, his body a block of defiance.

— He will have your report. This man will not.

— That is not for you to decide. — Demosthenes's reply was a thunderclap waiting for a target.

The Polemarch’s brow tightened. His gaze measured Cadmus, assessing not the man, but the weapon.

— The weapons stay here.

Cadmus hesitated. A warrior without his blade is a naked man. Slowly, he removed his gladius and handed it to a guard, memorizing the man's face. As they turned, the Polemarch's voice cut through the air.

— The dagger, too.

Both froze. Demosthenes turned just in time to see Cadmus draw the short blade hidden in his cloak. A shadow of a smile touched the Polemarch’s lips.

— I figured you wouldn’t disappoint me. A Spartan is never truly unarmed. — He gestured to the guard. — Demosthenes, you know my opinion. The responsibility is yours.

When the guards moved away, Demosthenes pulled Cadmus aside, his voice an urgent whisper.

— Listen well. Every word, every glance. Until we find out who the wolves are and who the lambs are, the only thing separating your head from a chopping block is my word. Understood?

Cadmus nodded, his jaw tight.

Finally, they entered the hall. As they approached, the man in the shadows looked up. It was Pericles. The scarce light accentuated his deep-set dark circles, but his eyes burned with a tireless intelligence that seemed to consume his very face.

— Demosthenes — he greeted, his voice firm. — And I imagine this is our… guest.

— General — Demosthenes returned. — This is Cadmus. He is capable and loyal.

Pericles narrowed his eyes, his gaze passing over Cadmus as if reading the scars beneath his tunic.

— Loyalty is a curious thing. It leaves marks. And I see many on this man. None of them Athenian. Did he leave your sight at any moment?

— I was not his prisoner — Cadmus interjected, his voice resonating against the marble.

— Indeed. — Pericles stood and descended the steps slowly, beginning to circle them like a wolf assessing stray sheep. — Then you tell me, Cadmus of Sparta. What is a wolf doing so far from its pack? Have you come to hunt, or merely to watch our lambs be slaughtered?

— Neither — Cadmus answered, motionless, the muscles tense under his tunic.

— No? — Pericles stopped behind him, his voice now a dangerous murmur. — I know men like you. Forged in fire and silence. You cannot stand peace. The silence bothers you, doesn't it? It brings back… memories? Do the nightmares still visit you, Spartan?

The question wasn't a question; it was a blow. For an instant, Cadmus felt his hands, hot and sticky, the smell of earth and blood. He looked down at them. Nothing. Pericles, now back in front of him, watched, a glint of triumph in his eyes. He had found the first crack.

— Wolves are useful — Pericles continued, his voice softer now. — Lambs are only good for sacrifice. And right now, I need a wolf. — He stopped beside a map. He pointed to Megara. — The situation is deteriorating. I need you to go there, Demosthenes. As for the Boule’s accusations… — He laughed, a bitter sound. — Theatrics. Tell them your mission is your punishment.

His finger slid across the map to Boeotia.

— Here, the problem is different. Our scouts report more than hoplites. They speak of old songs on the wind and of shadows that move where there are no men. And in the midst of all that superstition… Thebes has fallen.

— Who commands the detachment? — Cadmus’s voice came out louder than he intended.

Pericles turned slowly, savoring the moment.

— Why the interest?

— Curiosity.

— I’m sure it is. The commander is a certain Anchises, of the Agiads.

The name hit Cadmus like a punch to the gut. The air fled his lungs. Pine and cold iron. A voice saying his name with a scorn that froze the bones.

— Spartan to the core, that Anchises — Pericles observed, his narrow eyes reading Cadmus’s reaction. — They say he flays deserters himself. Loyalties are hard to erase, aren't they?

— Cadmus is not one of them — Demosthenes intervened.

— Of course. — Pericles smiled, a gesture devoid of warmth. — And I imagine you now very much want to go to Boeotia. — He held up a safe-conduct pass. — I can arrange it. On one condition: you will go as Demosthenes’s hound. You will do as he commands. And that is not a request.

— It is not my war — Cadmus said, his voice low, regaining his composure. He turned and walked toward the exit.

— Cadmus! — Pericles’s voice lashed out at him. — To Athens, you are a Spartan. To Sparta, you are a traitor. Who do you serve, in the end? Remember: Sparta never leaves the blood.

Cadmus stopped but did not turn. He kept walking.

As he left the building, in the gloom of the corridor, a figure partially blocked the passage. A woman of proud bearing and eyes that seemed to analyze everything. He stopped for a guard to return his weapons. He felt her gaze on him as he sheathed his gladius, and then the dagger.

— I thought blades were not permitted in here — she said. Her voice was calm, but with a timbre of steel.

Another test, he thought, tired of these games.

— Only for those who don’t know how to hide them — Cadmus retorted, walking past her.

She didn’t move.

— Did you find what you were looking for?

He stopped, turning slightly. His gaze swept over her. She was not a supplicant. She was a huntress.

— And you?

A ghost of a smile touched her lips.

— Not yet.

She then turned and entered the hall from which he had come, disappearing into the shadows and leaving behind a scent of myrrh and new papyrus. For an instant, Cadmus was intrigued. Then, he shrugged and went on his way, Pericles's words echoing in his mind like an omen.

Chapter Text

Athens was buzzing with the promise of the Dionysia, but the celebration was a feverish mask on a sick face. The air was a tapestry of contradictions: the sweet aroma of myrrh and barley cakes tried in vain to suffocate the stench of plague rising from the alleys. In the Agora, politicians in embroidered tunics debated the war, while masked actors recited verses to an audience with glazed eyes.

Roxana climbed the hill of the Acropolis, Alcibiades's invitation burning in her hand. In the courtyard, magistrates drank, their voices echoing emptily.

— Ah, the messenger from Lesbos! — Alcibiades's voice, slick and oily, cut through the air. He emerged, his smile calculated. — You still carry that look of a wounded eagle. Charming.

Roxana forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

— I came for the verses.

— Verses? — He laughed, pointing to a stumbling poet. — Listen to this fool! He's babbling about submerged queens. Drunkard's poetry. Even you could do better.

She tried to move away, but he was already pulling her into a circle of generals. Roxana feigned interest, her mind analyzing the scene. Poetry was a weapon, and here in Athens, they wielded it poorly, like children playing with daggers.

It was then that Alcibiades's voice rang out, triumphant and cruel:

— Gentlemen! We have had talented artists. However, today we have a true jewel of the muses. Roxana of Lesbos, disciple of the legendary Sappho!

He pointed her out like a hunter displaying his prey. Roxana froze. The chatter ceased. All eyes, curious and predatory, turned to her. The applause began, a trap closing in.

Alcibiades met her at the foot of the stage, offering her a cedar lyre, his gaze a mixture of malice and challenge.

— Honor the muses, Roxana. Show these barbarians what true art is.

The blood boiled in her veins. Punch him, the Survivor's voice hissed in her mind. But the Poetess, more cunning, regained control. She snatched the lyre from his hand with a contained violence and raised it like a shield, silencing the crowd.

— Alcibiades is too kind. This honor belongs to Sappho, my master. If I sing today, it is with her voice.

The audience murmured, recognizing the name. Roxana sat on the fragile stool. Her heart hammered. Breathe. Let the verses pass through you. And then, she made her choice. She would not sing to entertain. She would sing to confess. She chose Sappho's poem of farewell, an open wound disguised as art. They would hear the pain of a famous poetess; she would bleed for the sister she had lost.

She closed her eyes. She didn't see the crowd. She saw Serylda's face, the burning port, the smell of salt and ash. Sappho's hands guiding hers over the strings. When her voice emerged, it was not a whisper, but a river of restrained pain, soft and deadly. The melody wrapped the courtyard in a reverent stillness.

I tell you, I honestly wish I were dead.

She left me, undone by her tears, saying:

“Ah, what a bitter fate is ours!

Sappho, I swear, I leave against my will.”

“Go then, and be happy,” I said,

“And remember all the love I have for you...”

When the last chord dissipated, the silence remained, dense, heavy, more real than any applause. Then, her eyes opened and swept across the crowd. Confused faces. Bored faces. Drunken faces trying to look moved. And then, they landed on a single face.

Leaning against a column, at the edge of the celebration, was him. The Spartan.

He was motionless, not applauding. His face was a mask of stone, but his eyes... in them, Roxana saw no admiration. She saw recognition. A mirrored pain, an understanding so deep it stole her breath. For an instant, he gave the slightest nod of his head. Not a bow. An acknowledgement. A soldier saluting another's scar.

In that farce of a party, he was the only real person in the courtyard.

The spell, however, did not last. The silence was shattered by forced applause and the chatter of business deals resuming with full force. The moment of truth had been swallowed by banality. Alcibiades was already dragging her to the center, where politicians praised her "exotic grace" as if appraising a rare vase. He had tried to make her an object, and she had answered with her soul. But in the end, he was still selling her.

As night fell, she looked for the man by the column once more. He was gone, leaving behind only a stain of wine on the marble, red as the blood she knew so well.

Chapter Text

The third krater of watered-down wine was emptying. The tavern hall vibrated with laughter and the creaking of floorboards. Stentor, the quartermaster, was at the height of his performance.

— And they came from the sea! Hair of seaweed and teeth like daggers! — he bellowed, his eyes glazed. — They even stole the boots off the dead!

— And why didn't they take you, you old liar? — a sailor shouted.

— Because I played dead! And when I woke up, there were… goats. Walking on two legs! And laughing!

The circle exploded in laughter. Cadmus swirled his cup, the reflection of the flame dancing in the liquid. Fools, he thought. They filled the shadows with monsters because the real horror—the silence of dying men—was too simple, too real. He knew that feeling well.

— That’s what drinking this piss-water does to you — Cadmus said, his voice cutting through the laughter. — A man starts seeing excuses to relieve himself with animals in the forest.

The tension broke in a new wave of laughter. Cadmus watched the light in his cup. On the murky surface, he didn't see his own reflection, but hers. The poetess. She wasn't performing, he thought for the hundredth time. She was bleeding on that stage. An illogical need, a compulsion he didn't understand, pulsed within him: to tell her that he had seen. That he had understood.

The creak of the door announced Demosthenes. Out of his armor, he crossed the room and downed a mug in a single gulp.

— Another quiet day? — Cadmus asked.

— Bureaucracy. The reward for a successful campaign is another campaign. I leave for Megara soon.

— At least you kept your head.

— At least there's that. — The sarcasm didn't hide the bitterness. — And you? Have you considered Pericles’s offer?

— I'd rather be a wolf than a puppet.

— And Thebes?

The question hung in the air.

— No. — Cadmus’s chest tightened. — Why didn't you tell him... about my uncle?

Demosthenes took a long drink.

— Your uncle is a powerful man. Pericles, a desperate one. In times of war, a valuable nephew can become a bargaining chip.

Silence settled. Then, Demosthenes leaned in, a sly smile touching his lips.

— I saw you watching the poetess with interest.

Before Cadmus could answer, the door opened. Roxana entered like a night breeze, and Cadmus’s world narrowed. She walked straight to the counter. For a moment, her eyes met his, reflecting surprise before they locked. Demosthenes gave him a subtle nudge.

— Go.

Cadmus stood, his heart hammering a stupid, undisciplined beat. He got close enough to catch her scent: myrrh and ink, mixed with the dust of the road.

— What you sang… — he began, his voice hoarse. — It wasn't for them.

She raised an eyebrow, an amused glint in her eyes.

— No? And who was it for, Spartan?

He blinked.

— How…?

— The complete inability to hold a simple conversation is usually a clue. Besides the accent.

— Should I take that as an offense?

— Why? Are you ashamed of your roots?

He didn't answer. Instead, she saw him take an almond from his pocket.

— Almonds. You're a merchant, I imagine.

— A merchant?

The indignation on his face was so genuine that a crystalline laugh escaped her, a sound that seemed both out of place and perfect in that grimy tavern.

— Sorry! I had to see your face.

— Now I'm offended — Cadmus said, but a reluctant smile, which he tried to crush, betrayed him.

For an instant, a lightness hovered between them. But then his smile faltered, and beneath that moment, she saw the warrior, the man who had been with Pericles. Her guard went up, instantly. The light in her eyes died, replaced by a cold, analytical gleam.

— What did you want with Pericles? — Her voice was lower, sharper. — Did he send you to spy on me?

The question hit him with the weight of every other suspicion he had ever faced. His brief smile vanished.

— Traitor. Spy. Wolf. — His voice was low, tired, each word a scar. — It seems everyone has already decided what I am.

His unexpected vulnerability disarmed her. She made a move to respond, but her silence was, to him, a confirmation. Frustration rose in his throat. Pericles was right. He raised his mug in a silent, bitter toast and turned to leave.

— Wait.

Her voice stopped him at the door. He turned. She was watching him from across the hall, a solitary figure in the midst of the chaos.

— My name is Roxana.

He looked at her for a long moment. Then a strange, wild, and painful smile tore across his face. The smile of a man who was tired of being misunderstood and had decided to break the rules of the game. He raised his mug high, his voice rising over the tavern's noise.

— CHEERS FOR ROXANA!

The hall, confused, erupted in a few scattered shouts and applause. Roxana stood paralyzed, watching him. And, to the sound of her own name being absurdly acclaimed, she watched him walk out into the silence of the night.

Chapter Text

The hot wind blew over Athens, carrying the scent of incense and dust. For days Roxana had walked the alleys, following rumors like poisoned breadcrumbs. The information from Alcibiades about the ship had become an obsession.

She turned to the dregs.

A smuggler laughed in her face. A skeletal boy pointed to her tunic: "That's a ghost's color. Trade it for rags, or they'll kill you."

She ignored him. But upon entering the agora, she realized the boy was right. The square was deserted. A heavy, unnatural silence, like the air before a storm. The wind whistled between the empty columns. She felt watched.

Behind a column, she saw a shape—a ragged girl, who vanished as soon as their eyes met.

A rhythmic sound broke the silence: an Athenian detachment, escorting covered wagons.

— It's a trap — a child's voice whispered from behind her.

Roxana spun around. No one. A movement above. On a low wall, the small figure held a lit torch. Her heart hammered. She turned to run. A sharp whistle. The arrow tore through her arm, a burning gash.

The world exploded.

Arrows from windows. Screams from the soldiers. And from the alleys, came hunger. A mass of people brandishing clubs, scythes, and hatred. The wagons' tarps were ripped away, revealing the treasure: grain, dried meat. Roxana tried to move, but a pair of bloodshot eyes landed on her. Fine clothes. Silver earrings. Enemy.

— Get her! — A peasant grabbed her by the hair. Pain. The smell of garlic. Rough hands on her mantle. The scar exposed. She bit down. A scream. The taste of blood and dirt. The hidden dagger, a blind motion, a dull thud. He fell.

She ran. The torn mantle a broken wing. She stumbled, fell, dust in her mouth. A man pulled her by the ankles, his lewd grin dissolving into a roar. The little girl, appearing from nowhere, a rusty dagger between the man's ribs. A shadow. Vanished. Roxana took her chance: a kick to his face.

Her gaze found the half-open door of a warehouse. She threw herself inside. The door slammed shut. It wasn't enough. The impact from outside threw her to the ground. Then, the hands. Claws gripping her neck, her chest, her legs. The mantle being torn. The weight of bodies crushing her. The smell of sweat and vinegar.

An echo. The same smell. The same hands. No. Not again.

Her panic reached its limit and broke. The sound of the fight outside, her own muffled groans, all of it faded, replaced by an icy silence inside her head. The fear died, and in its place, a terrible, pure, and murderous clarity was born. Her body was a frozen fire.

She reopened her eyes. An insane, guttural laugh escaped from the depths of her soul, a voice that was not hers tearing through Roxana's veil.

— YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD!

Behind them, the warehouse door exploded into splinters. An orange glow from the fire outside silhouetted a figure in the entrance. A sharp whistle. The blade danced.

For Roxana, on the floor, it was a release. The weight on her eased. A wet sound of steel meeting flesh. A hot spray of blood on her face. A body fell beside her, limp and heavy. Then another. She didn't see a fight. She saw boots moving with impossible speed on the dusty floor. She heard groans that ended in gurgles. Throats being cut. The floor became a sticky sea.

The last weight disappeared. The figure sheathed his sword, a fluid and final motion. He approached, pushing a body aside with his boot. He knelt. She already knew who it was. The Spartan.

— You...? — she whispered.

He didn't answer. His fingers, surprisingly gentle, adjusted what was left of the torn mantle over her bare shoulders, covering her.

The gesture broke her. That small act of dignity in the midst of the carnage. A sob escaped her, a remnant of pride undone. A single tear ran down her cheek and turned into a convulsive cry the moment he lifted her into his arms, his strong body a shield against the world.

In the chaos of the burning agora, he carried her, weaving around corpses and smoldering piles of wheat. Roxana saw her own reflection in the wide blade of his sword: disheveled hair, blood on her chin, swollen eyes. Before her consciousness dissolved into darkness, Roxana had one last thought, a spark of gallows humor in the middle of hell:

Good thing he liked my poetry.

Chapter Text

The forest breathed damply, each leaf dripping with the weight of a rain that would not cease. His world had lost its color. The mud clung to Cadmus like cold hands. A promise to keep.

The ambush. Lysander, impetuous. His own hesitation, a split second sown from the memory of a mother saving him from wolves. The ash spear, swift. Lysander's throat, drowning in his own blood, his eyes wide with surprise. The killer's smile, a satyr with broken horns.

Guilt was an acid. The red storm that followed was not vengeance; it was self-punishment.

“You don’t reason with slaves, Cadmus. They understand better when the rules are carved into their backs.”

His uncle's voice reverberated in his head. He did not reason.

The barn. The smell of death and rain. The female fell first. The old one next. Finally, Lysander’s killer, terror in his eyes before Cadmus’s dagger found his heart. The ringing of blood in his ears. Silence.

And then, a sob.

It came from a dark corner. A child. A small satyr, with her father's eyes, watching him from behind a pile of hay. He raised the dagger, the steel dripping. The cycle had to end.

She did not scream. She just stared at him, her voice small and terribly calm.

— Kill me too. Please.

The words. The dagger weighed a ton. The rage vanished, replaced by a horror that stole his breath. He saw the monster.

And then, she screamed. A scream not of fear, but of infinite pain. A scream that broke him in two and cursed him forever.

The scream shattered the dream.

— Cadmus?

The voice came from far away. He opened his eyes. His face was wet. Not rain, but water from a spilled vase of flowers. The smell of blood lingered, but now it mixed with incense. He shot up, back to the wall, his hand searching for a phantom dagger.

Roxana stood a few steps away, holding a lamp. The golden light illuminated half her face. Her eyes showed no fear, only a quiet curiosity.

— Hey — she insisted, her voice soft. — You were screaming. And crying.

He wiped an arm across his face, his hands trembling with shame; he hid them. The sound echoed in his mind. Clang. Clang.

— I’m not crying — he grumbled, his voice hoarse. — It’s the rain.

She raised the lamp, illuminating the overturned vase. She didn't expose him. Instead, she approached slowly, like one would approach a wounded animal. He tensed, his body ready to fight or flee. She stopped and placed a piece of bread wrapped in linen at his feet. Then, she retreated.

He stared at the bread. A monster covered in blood, and she was offering him food. That simple, undeserved act of kindness wounded him more than any blade.

— Dreams are liars — she said, not as a comfort, but as a statement of fact. — We are safe.

He didn't answer. The image of the girl begging for death. Roxana's face. He had expected revulsion, fear. But all he received was a piece of bread.

— How… how are you? — he asked, his voice failing, the first question that wasn't about tactics or survival.

A smile that didn't touch her lips, but shone in her eyes.

— I'm better. And… thank you. Truly. — She turned to leave. — Come. Demosthenes arrived at dawn. You need some air.

He stood still until her footsteps faded. He knelt and picked up the bread. He broke it in half, as he used to do with Lysander. The first bite almost made him choke. In the corner, his father's helmet. He stood and touched the cold bronze. Clang. Clang. This time, the sound seemed hollow, the echo of a world that was no longer the only one that existed.

When he stepped outside, the sky was beginning to lighten in the shades of a healing wound. Roxana was watching the horizon, her mantle fluttering in the wind like an owl's wings. She didn't look back, but said, her voice so low it could have been the wind itself:

— Even the dead need their rest, Cadmus.

He didn't answer. But, for the first time in a long while, he didn't reach into his pocket for an almond. The hunger he felt was not for food.

Chapter Text

The scent of aconite and mint mingled with the sweat of a fever. Roxana bit her lip until she tasted blood, twisting to apply the ointment to the wounds on her back. Every touch drew a gasp from her. In the polished bronze mirror, she saw the bruised lesions merging with the old scars, a map of pain. At least one arm still works, she thought, medicating the deep cut on her shoulder.

It had been a week since they had become Pericles's "guests." Guests, or prisoners in luxury. The room was vast, cold, and far too silent. She felt like a bird in a gilded cage, suffocated by the polished marble while, outside, she heard the distant echoes of a wounded city.

She chose a mantle of light fabric, dyed in dark tones to hide the marks. She stepped out onto the balcony. The morning light spilled over the gardens. And then she saw him. Cadmus.

He was sitting at the edge of the lake, elbows on his knees, his old helmet resting beside him like a faithful hound. He was not relaxed. He leaned over and dipped his hand in the water, but pulled it back suddenly, as if burned by the cold. He stared at the surface, his posture tense, as if the lake were returning a gaze he did not understand.

They had been avoiding each other since they arrived. Fleeting encounters in the corridors, nods, grunts instead of words. She didn't know what to say to the man who had saved her, and he seemed like a man who wanted nothing said to him. She hesitated to go down.

Firm steps on the marble announced Pericles. He dismissed the guards with a gesture.

— Has the maid been useful? — Pericles's voice was low, but his gaze examined Roxana's wounds like a general inspecting a battle map.

Roxana nodded.

— Your courage is impressive. But courage without strategy is a poem with no audience.

— How did you know?

— I knew of your forays into the black market even before the attack — he said, bluntly. — An aristocrat asking dangerous questions. Bold. And predictable.

She remained silent, her chin held high in defiance.

— The riot was a turning point — Pericles continued, walking past her to look out at the city. His shoulders seemed bent under the weight of the state. — Tragic, yes. But useful. Now, the other magistrates can no longer ignore the danger. We have lost Thebes. Megara is hanging by a thread. If we don't find a way through by sea, Athens will crumble.

He turned, and a wan smile, devoid of any warmth, touched his lips.

— So, let us reopen our negotiation. How many ships can Sappho and the other families gather?

Indignation rose in her throat, hot as bile. He had used her suffering, the chaos, as political leverage. With his arms crossed, Pericles simply watched her with a calculated calm, waiting for her fury to exhaust itself.

— You've changed your mind? — her voice cut the silence.

He uncrossed his arms.

— Circumstances have changed my mind.

A breath escaped her lips. The fight drained out of her, replaced by the bitter pragmatism of the survivor.

— Deucalion can barely stand — her voice sounded resigned, — but I believe Sappho can gather allies. One or two dozen ships, perhaps more.

— I will send the decree — he said, a gleam of triumph in his eyes.

— And the ship seized in Eretria? — Her voice was cold steel. — I need to know.

A nearly imperceptible twitch at the corner of Pericles's lips was his only reaction.

— I have already told you there is no information. But if you help me with the fleet, I can call in some favors...

He turned, leaving the hollow promise hanging in the air. He left her with empty hands and the bitter taste of manipulation.

When he was gone, a dense silence settled over the garden. Roxana remained with her back to the lake, feeling Cadmus's gaze on her wounds. His silence was different; it wasn't a weapon, but a weight. It was she who broke it, her voice little more than a bitter whisper.

— He always gets what he wants.

— Not always. — Cadmus's voice came from nearby. He had approached without her noticing. — Why that ship? What's on it?

Roxana let out a dry, humorless laugh and turned to face him.

— On it? Nothing. What mattered was who was on it. — The confession hung in the air, fragile and terrible. — I was able to escape. She wasn't.

Cadmus didn't flinch. His eyes, which had seemed distant before, focused on hers with a surprising intensity. He absorbed the pain in those words.

— She who? — he asked, his voice softer now.

Roxana shook her head, swallowing the answer.

— Thank you for… before. I misjudged you. I thought you were someone who doesn't care.

— I care — he said, a murmur that seemed to hold a world of unsaid things.

They both opened their mouths at the same time and stopped, a broken echo. The air between them vibrated. Roxana felt the blood rush to her face.

— Cadmus… why were you crying that day?

He stiffened, as if the question were a physical blow. The soldier's mask fell for a second, revealing a raw pain before he recomposed himself. Before he could forge an answer, heavy, hurried steps sounded on the marble. Demosthenes appeared, already in armor, his face smudged with soot, breaking the spell. His eyes darted from one to the other, noting their proximity.

— I am leaving for Megara.

— And the situation in the agora? — Roxana asked, taking a step back.

— Fire contained. There are greater urgencies. — He pulled Cadmus aside and handed him a sealed scroll. — If you still wish to go to Thebes, there is a friend willing to receive you.

They exchanged a short, firm handshake. A soldier's farewell. Demosthenes turned to Roxana, his professional gaze gliding over the scars on her arm.

— Are you being well cared for?

She just nodded.

He was gone, a man on his way to another war.

The silence returned, heavier.

— You're going to Thebes? — Roxana asked. — Why?

Cadmus looked at the scroll, then at the lake, as if the answer lay at the bottom of the dark water. A light laugh, a sound that didn't reach his eyes, escaped his lips. He opened his arms in a gesture of helplessness and resignation. Even he didn't know the answer.

Then, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone, her fingers clutching a scroll she had yet to write. On the lake, the water's surface, once stirred by him, was now smooth as a dark mirror, guarding everyone's secrets.