The days after Demosthenes's departure slipped into a void—Athens, once pulsing in every alley, now felt like replaying a board where all moves had been made. The few crewmen who'd sailed from Samos with him steered clear, as if Cadmus carried a plague. Perhaps he did.
Aimless and unanchored, Cadmus fled Pericles's marble halls for a shadowed brothel beneath the Acropolis. He never slept. Each night he perched on the porch, watching courtesans' laughter and cheap wine in the linen-curtained rooms, gnawing peanuts until his jaw ached. Their voices and the heady wine offered a ghost of company, but by dawn, only the dull ache of exile remained.
At first light, Cadmus climbed the dew-slick steps of the Acropolis. The stone stairs glistened like frozen tears in the rising sun. Athena's statue dominated the courtyard—twelve meters of gold and ivory blinding in challenge. In her left hand, she held Nike, the golden Victory, yet her empty eyes stared past him at the horizon. Protector of heroes, he reminded himself. He was no hero—never had been.
At her feet, he left barley cakes, honey, and wine—offerings filched from the brothel—hoping, though never admitting, for a sign. None came. Helena had said the gods spoke only to ears willing to listen.
— They are echoes in the wind, shadows in a lake. Enough for some. But if you know the right question, Cadmus, maybe you find an answer.
Hands pressed to the cold marble, Cadmus wondered if Athena watched him from some woven fate. His sleep had become restless; in his dreams, he felt unblinking eyes upon him.
— You talk too much for a slab of stone, he muttered one dawn, draining another offering of wine.
The wind answered, swirling dry leaves at his feet.
From there, he moved to his next destination: the Lyceum. Since arriving, something in his mind had tugged him here. Yet the daily torment yielded nothing. The courtyard smelled of dust and fresh paint. He leaned beneath a gnarled olive and watched young Athenians sprint across the packed dirt—sharp giggles unlike Spartan barks of training.
One boy tripped, scraping his knee, bawling like a pup. Cadmus's lips tightened—weakness. But for a moment, he was that stray orphan, seven years old, bleeding in the orphanage yard as Helena stitched his skin with coarse thread.
On that day, the dust rose in a golden veil. Cadmus closed his eyes and everything dissolved.
Forest. Rustling. The scent of ripe figs and iron.
He was back on that cursed night, leaves matted beneath him, skeletal branches reaching like hands. The sky, black as obsidian, shimmered with shifting shadows.
The call came first: a low, rhythmic owl's hoot—hoo, hoo, hoo—a summons to the darkness closing in. His heart thumped, each beat matched by the warm pulse of blood trickling down his thigh. Yet no pain—only the vivid awareness of frailty.
— Mama, a man! cried a child's voice among fallen trunks.
Cadmus tried to lift his head, but rain—no, tears—blurred his vision. Figures approached: a woman and a girl, faces misted by fog.
— He's one of them. Stay back, said the woman, voice cold as death's kiss.
— He's hurt! pleaded the girl, her small fingers brushing his cheek—no comfort, only intrusion.
— He's dying, the mother corrected.
— Why?
— Because he'd not help us, came her spit.
— How do you know? asked the girl, stepping close. Cadmus saw her eyes—blue as storm clouds. — Would you kill me if I begged? she whispered, claws unseen sinking into Cadmus's chest, piercing his heart.
Shadows spun, twisting in on themselves. A moan escaped Cadmus, and then all went black.
He woke choking, sweat on his temples. The Lyceum was empty—dust drifting like mist. Only the wind whispered through columns, carrying ghostly laughter.
Athens lay mute. Cadmus stumbled to the Acropolis's base, where the wind swirled like a guide. This climb felt endless—steps snaked beyond clouds, temples reduced to toys beneath him. At the summit, the Propylaea loomed like a portal, white columns glowing under a sun that existed only in memory.
Through the gate flowed a veil of warm water—not rain but a suspended river, flowing skyward. His feet sank from marble into plush grass in a valley that defied reality. White-barked forests shimmered under a dusk glow; green rivers wound black-bottomed, and waterfalls defied gravity, spiraling upward into clouds.
At the valley's center stood the Parthenon—intact, majestic.
From its entrance emerged a figure, haloed in light—not earthly but a reflection of the divine. Her steps were graceful yet resolute. As she neared, Cadmus froze.
She unveiled her face: sculpted beauty, skin pale as the gods' stones. Eyes blue as an inner flame fixed him with timeless intensity. Her gentle smile held ancient secrets.
— Cadmus, her voice was both melody and thunder.
He didn't know if he knelt or the earth had opened. She extended her hand, and the valley inclined toward her touch.
— You'll find no new images where only mirrors exist, she whispered, her finger icy against his brow— Sometimes you must believe what lies beyond is good. Trust your feeling. Then go.
Before he could answer, she pressed lightly to his forehead, and a breath of warm wind brushed his face.
Cadmus blinked—and he was back at the Lyceum. The dirt floor lay beneath him; dust had settled. A boy and his father dueled with wooden swords, laughing. He rose, knees trembling, and gazed at the Acropolis. The Parthenon stood distant, but Athena's statue seemed smaller.
In his pocket, his hand found the pouch of chestnuts. New images, he recalled, as he left them behind for father and son.
— Roxana, he murmured, voice a vow. — I must find her.
He descended the Lyceum steps, past merchants and philosophers debating in the open air. A guard detail readied for curfew. Cadmus didn't look back. At the central square, a crowd gathered to hear a poet recite verses of love and war. Cadmus didn't pause: his steps drove him east to the gate where merchants prepped wheeled caravans.
— Hey, you—come here! he barked at a filthy peasant sat by a wagon.
The man obeyed.
— When did the last caravan leave for Eretria?
— Me? I dunno—
Cadmus didn't wait. He questioned another, and another, until a recruit guard, fed up with his frenzy, stepped in.
— Hold it! You—helm-splitter!
— What?! Cadmus shot back.
— What do you think you're doing?
— Ah, you serve! he exclaimed— When did the last caravan leave for Eretria?
— How…? the recruit stammered.
— Answer, or the polemarch will hear!
— Okay, okay… we don't see many caravans these days…
— WHEN?! Cadmus's neck veins bulged.
— Two days ago, give or take.
— A woman travel with them? A diplomat?
Cadmus seized him.
— Blue eyes, short, red hair, fierce. You saw her.
— Ah! the recruit said, realization dawning— The Lesbos bloom! Yes, she was with the…
Cadmus waited as he grabbed the parchment of safe conduct from Demosthenes.
He shoved through the crowd toward the gate. Guards called after him:
— Need a horse? asked a ragged farmer pointing to a mare.
Cadmus shook his head. He would walk, if necessary. Slinging his satchel, an eagle soared down, snatched a serpent from a nearby olive, claws dripping blood. Their eyes met, and a voice whispered in his mind.
— Even the dead need rest.
He left Athens behind as the sun sank into the sea, painting the marble of the Acropolis blood-red.