The third cup of diluted wine was draining slowly, staining the rim of the clay mug with a purple residue. The tavern hall vibrated with overlapping voices, raucous laughter, and the groan of the floorboards under the weight of drunken soldiers. Stentor, Demosthenes's quartermaster, was at the height of his performance, using grand gestures to describe how sirens had supposedly boarded his ship.
— So there they were, out of nowhere, he bellowed, eyes glassy. — With seaweed hair and teeth like daggers! They cleaned us out! Stole even the boots off the dead!
Cadmus stared into the distant hearth until an elbow from the rower beside him jolted him awake—and nearly knocked over his drink.
— You believe that, Cadmus? the man laughed, breath reeking of garlic.
Cadmus said nothing.
— Do you think we're fools? yelled another sailor across the table. — If that were real, you'd be at the bottom of the sea.
— That's just it, kid, I died! Stentor raised an accusing finger to hush the jeering crowd. — My heart stopped, and they thought I was off in Hades's halls. See these scars? he touched the left side of his face. — A siren clawed me right here, down to the belly. I even shit myself.
The sailors split between laughter and curses. The rower next to Cadmus added:
— You still didn't explain why they didn't finish the job.
— Best part, he leapt onto the table, wine sloshing over his white beard, dripping onto his homespun cloak. — When I woke up, I was on a straw mattress in a forest of giants! Thirty goats pranced around me!
— Goats? the sailors fell silent and leaned in. — You landed in Phoenicia?
— Phoenicia? scoffed the man who'd called him old. — Goats are everywhere. He must've been near Brauron.
— You don't get it, Stentor roared, waving his arms. — The goats weren't on all fours—they were walking upright!
A hush fell. The sailors exchanged bewildered glances. Cadmus swallowed and broke the tension.
— That's what happens when you drink this watered-down piss, he said through a half-smile. — People will blame anything for pissing themselves in the forest.
Laughter exploded around the table. Cadmus twirled his cup, feigning indifference, watching the candlelight flicker in the cloudy wine. In its murky surface, he saw the reflection of Helena—her aged hands mashing laundry in the river. Feels like a lifetime, he thought. I miss her stories. Back when they were just stories…
In a corner of the hall, a bard began torturing a lyre, each sour note like nails on stone. Nothing compared to the words that had stirred Cadmus hours earlier at the Acropolis. The poetess. Something about her unsettled him—a pull that, now warmed by wine, throbbed with an irrational need to return and tell her how her poetry had touched him. He crushed a chestnut in his pocket, shards pricking his palm.
Another elbow snapped him back. He squeezed the cup and fought the urge to punch the rower. Instead, he rose and wove through the tavern to the bar, where the proprietor and his daughter hurried to ladle thin stew. Cadmus leaned on the counter, letting his gaze roam the smoky, sweat-heavy room lit only by dancing flames. Most patrons were soldiers; Cadmus stayed quiet, eavesdropping on war-talk they thought him too Spartan to understand.
The door creaked as Demosthenes entered—no armor, but still sword-belted—striding to the bar. He flung himself onto a stool, ordered a mug of wine, and drained it in one gulp, splattering his cloak with dark drops like fresh blood.
— Quiet night? Cadmus asked.
— Another one, Demosthenes replied, voice hidden behind a wry grin—tired of "another." — We sail back to Ionia on the next ship?
Cadmus laughed, facing him.
— Wasn't so bad. What happened?
Demosthenes ran a hand through his dark hair. — Bureaucracy. Politics. Endless bleating—Siracusan defeat, fleet in shambles… And looks like I won't see a week's rest. Next campaign's already set: to Mégara—front lines.
— At least you kept your head, Cadmus replied.
— Yeah. Small mercy. Demosthenes's tone dripped sarcasm. He sipped again, knuckles whitening, and eyed Cadmus with curiosity. — Did you consider Pericles's offer?
Cadmus's lips twisted in a dry smirk. — I'd rather be a "wolf" than a politician's puppet.
— Aren't we all? Demosthenes concluded, downing another mug. Then he leaned in, the tang of wine and rusted metal thick between them. — And Thebes? Will you go?
The air between them thickened. Cadmus looked down. — No, he said quietly. His chest heaved under a heavy regret—Remembered his helmet back on the trireme. — Why didn't you tell Pericles? about him.
Demosthenes drew a long sip before replying, then grimaced. — Your uncle Anchises is powerful. In war, even friends become strangers. Pericles might see you as a bargaining chip… or sell you for a sack of wheat.
— A sack of wheat? Cadmus scoffed.
— You fight well, Demosthenes replied matter-of-factly.
— Fair.
Silence fell. After a moment, Demosthenes gave a nearly mischievous grin. — I saw you eyeing the poetess earlier.
Cadmus raised an eyebrow, surprised by the change of topic. Before he could reply, Demosthenes laughed with genuine amusement.
— You waste no time.
— You're a madman, Cadmus held back a retort—another sour note from the lyre broke his composure. — Who was she?
Demosthenes choked on wine, pointing at Cadmus. — Ah, I knew it.
Cadmus cracked—couldn't keep a straight face. — Alright, spill.
— Her name's Roxana. Diplomat… poet…and headache.
— Why?
Demosthenes leaned back and began recounting her demands regarding Lesbos—told how she petitioned Pericles for safe-conduct through Attica to reach Eretria. Cadmus frowned.
— What does she want braving war lands?
— No clue. But if you're so curious, ask her yourself, Demosthenes said, nodding toward the door.
Cadmus turned just in time to see Roxana enter like a night breeze—dark hair loose over her shoulders. The hall erupted in applause; men's eyes shone with memories of her afternoon recitation. She offered a shy wave and moved to the bar.
But Cadmus noticed none of it. His heart froze; the world melted to a roar. She saw him. For a suspended moment, her blue eyes widened—surprise—then locked on his, as if fate had been written in spilled wine and candlelight.
Demosthenes nudged him. — Go on. Before more wine turns you as dumb as Stentor.
Cadmus stood, legs heavy. Roxana studied him, fingers drumming on the countertop. He approached close enough to catch her scent: myrrh, fresh parchment, road-weariness.
— Your poetry… he began, voice husky.
She raised an eyebrow, waiting.
— Was… different he finished, looking at a melting candle.
Roxana's smile wasn't kindness but challenge. — Different isn't praise, Spartan.
He opened his mouth, but she turned to the tavernkeeper. Cadmus stayed, chestnut in hand, while the lyre resumed its torture—strangely less grating now. In the corner, Demosthenes watched, fingers tracing his dagger's hilt.
— How…?
— How do I know you're Spartan? she smiled—spent time with a few. Inability for small talk's common—besides the accent.
— Is that an insult?
— Why? Ashamed of your roots? she raised a brow, sipping wine.
Cadmus found no retort. He nibbled a chestnut and smiled.
— Chestnuts. Hard to find. Must be a rich trader, sea or land?
— Trader? he frowned—serious?
She burst out laughing, wine spraying. Roxana covered her mouth, coughing. — S-sorry! had to see your face.
— Now I'm insulted, Cadmus said, draining another.
After her laughter faded, she took chestnuts from him and was distracted by the bard's lamentable tune. He noticed her flinch at each sour note.
— He's awful, isn't he?
— Yeah… but I like these verses.
They fell silent, watching the botched performance. Roxana shut her eyes, seeking emotion from the disaster, opening them only when it ended. The bard slouched to a corner table.
She caught Cadmus watching. — Why are you here…what's your name again?
The question startled him. He met her blue eyes — I'm… Cadmus.
— Right… why are you here, Cadmus?
— I arrived in Athens days ago. Was in… in the war.
— No… not that. Why are you here, talking to me?
— Ah, yes… like I said. I enjoyed your performance.
— As did they she nodded toward applauding soldiers. — And?
— I must have poet's blood…
— No— she interrupted, impatient—Don't do that. What did you want from Pericles that day? Did he send you to spy on me?
Cadmus couldn't hold back a laugh. She watched him seriously until he replied:
— I'm not here to spy on you.
— Then why…
— We're just talking, he tried a friendly smile—and failed. — Need a hidden motive?
She parted her lips to answer, but no words came.
Finally, Cadmus gave up. Offered a silent toast, then slipped toward the door—wine clouding his balance.
At the threshold, he heard her voice. He turned to show he'd heard.
— My name is Roxana.
— Applause for Roxana! he shouted, and the hall roared once more as he stepped into the night's hush.