The taste of salt still clung to Roxana's lips, even after a week inside the parched walls of Athens. Hot air rose from dusty streets, thick with mutters of discontent and the acrid stench of disease that stuck to alleyways like an unwelcome guest. Roxana walked down the Panathenaic Way, stepping over sun-bleached corpses of plague victims left to bake, while scraps of papyrus listing the dead danced in the breeze. Charcoal scrawls on stucco walls shouted, "The Delian League is a corpse!" and "Sparta will swallow us whole!" The agora, once the city's vibrant heart, lay nearly deserted—only a handful of vendors hawking stale bread crumbs and shriveled fruit at outrageous prices. The great city felt like an empty shell, echoing only its own crisis.
Roxana, by contrast, felt like a single grain of sand in that desert of apathy. Her patrons were tied up in Lesbos's affairs, and Athenian magistrates had their own fires to put out—foreign pleas barely registered. In the Areopagus courtyard, voices rose in fierce debate over island uprisings and Attica's wheat shortage, but as soon as Roxana approached, weary gazes turned away.
On the fifth day, a messenger finally arrived at her door with a reply to one of her hundreds of letters—and an unwelcome invitation. Yet an invitation it was. Roxana rummaged through her trunk for that night's persona: a deep-blue tunic to match her eyes, draped with a fine white himation over one shoulder that contrasted with sunburned skin. She chose simple earrings and a silver ring set with green stones. This should do, she thought.
As she neared the Acropolis's shadow, a cluster of aristocrats in pristine chitons passed her, laughing as they hoisted amphorae of wine toward a symposium. Roxana clenched her fists but kept her eyes on the ground. Before she knew it, she'd crossed a vast stone gateway—and stepped into another world.
Amid opulent buildings, her destination loomed—a marble leviathan whose columns glowed in torchlight, casting dancing silhouettes of nude figures across Ionian tapestries. She paused at the threshold, taken by uproarious laughter, the crash of broken cups, and the querulous lilting of an out-of-tune lyre.
— Welcome to Alcibiades's house, the servants chimed in unison, bowing so respectably it seemed to mock their master's legend.
A red-eyed footman with a loose grin led her past corridors scented with spilled wine and costly incense. Pillows scattered on marble floors cradled languid bodies; bronzed limbs shimmered in the flickering glow, and golden cups clinked in near-constant toast.
Roxana bore the stares as she made for the center chamber, where Alcibiades reclined on a couch, his chiton gaping to reveal a sinewy chest. He eyed her through perfumed fingers that toyed with a wine cup's rim.
— Ah, the Lesbos blossom, he murmured, rising with lazy grace. — You've finally come. Have you come to water my garden with your tears of supplication?
Roxana stood tall, her fingertips trembling at her sides. She ignored the guests' tittering.
— You know exactly why I'm here.
He laughed—loud, carefree—and extended a hand to pull her closer.
— Such solemnity. Everything can wait. First, taste the wine. It's from Chios's finest vintage.
He tugged her by the wrist onto a cushion before him, brushing a scar on her exposed arm.
— What a beautiful mark… slave? he whispered, as though reading poetry, not a whip's wound.
She jerked her arm free.
— Apologies, Roxana, he crooned, pouting pathetically. — I fear we've started on the wrong foot. I'm truly eager to hear your undoubtedly urgent requests, but you arrived midstory. Let me finish—this one's a good one. Here, use this cup.
He snatched a golden goblet from the floor and handed it to her like a sacrament.
As night deepened, hints and hushes trailed behind folding fans and clinking cups. Eventually, Alcibiades tired of her—and whisked off with two golden-haired youths to his private chambers. Roxana made the rounds, sampling sumptuous appetizers. Strangely, his guests seemed less disagreeable without their ringleader, though still the sort she preferred to avoid.
A servant finally came for her, escorting her to Alcibiades's own quarters. The youths giggled away, leaving him half-naked on a crimson-draped bed, as brazen as any satyr.
— Sit, he beckoned, a sly smile curving his lips.
She narrowed her eyes, dignified even as he offered a lewd invitation that flushed her cheeks. She said nothing, pivoting toward the door—only to hear his voice, now earnest.
— Wait. All right. Speak. I'm listening.
Gritting her teeth, she turned back, squared her shoulders, and sat with every ounce of poise she could muster. He watched as she outlined Lesbos's plight, tracing wine with slender fingers as if the liquid were a toy. As her tale wound on, Alcibiades's smirk faltered. His jaw clenched for a heartbeat; his eyes darted to the chamber's dark corners.
— I will present this to the council, he said at last, casually refilling his cup. — But don't kid yourself; your petition will be buried. There are matters more urgent.
Roxana leaned forward, eyes blazing.
— More urgent than your beloved League's ruin? Than Sparta ruling the Aegean?
His gaze hardened; he paused before replying. After a heavy silence, Alcibiades reclined on his cushion throne and gave a muffled laugh, tossing grapes to a wine-slicked dog.
— Lesbos is a distant isle, my dear. Here, even the gods grow weary of prayers.
— Then we have nothing more to discuss, Roxana rose to leave, but he caught her belt.
— Wait, my dear. Don't depart so soon. It's impolite, he chided, nibbling his lip at her retreating hand. — I may help you with another matter. A Macedonian trireme… the one you described in your letter… I hear it was recently seized.
Her heart lurched; the ground wavered underfoot. The last image of that burning harbor—bodies mingled with sea foam—assailed her mind like a demon.
— Where?
Alcibiades leaned back, satisfied.
— Ask Pericles. He still believes in heroism, he spat the word like an olive pit. — But before you leave… stay a while. The night is young.
Roxana braced herself, fingers whitening around her goblet.
— Thank you, she said, setting it down with a dry clink. — But I have more pressing matters.
He laughed—this time, a cold sound.
— As you wish. But remember, fair Lesbos flower, in Athens not everyone welcomes a foreigner's plea.
She rose, steeling her composure, and strode for the door, tension coiling in her shoulders as his final promise echoed like a riddle. But before she could reach the latch, the door burst open. A band of half-clad men stumbled in; the drunkenest tripped over the threshold and collided with Roxana, sending her satchel flying. Silver Lesbos coins—stamped with boars confronting laurels—clinked across the floor. Alcibiades plucked one up, examining it as if it were a blasphemous relic.
— Beautiful… but worthless, he declared, flinging it into the hearth where a fat pig roasted whole.
She pivoted and left, footsteps sure but heart pounding. The streets were darker now, and the city's weight pressed in on her. Yet amidst the chaos, a spark of resolve ignited within. If Alcibiades wouldn't hear her, she would find someone who would.