The afternoon wind scorched Athens, carrying the acrid tang of incense and dust. Roxana's skin stung under the relentless sun as she picked her way along cobbled streets. Her fingers drummed anxiously on the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath her cloak. She had spent days threading the city's back alleys, chasing rumors like poisoned breadcrumbs: "Men scaling walls," "Ghost ships in Piraeus," "Silver coins for silence." All smoke and mirrors.
Pride and exhaustion choked the city. Her diplomatic mission had dissolved into irrelevance. Even with Pericles's backing, her voice carried no weight. The real terror would rage on in Lesbos until Spartan standards—those trophies of conquest—were planted on her homeland's soil, or pirates, those ragged barbarians, laid claim first.
Anger simmered at Alcibiades's betrayal—he'd told her of the captured ship but had offered no real help. His tidbit had become her obsession. It had been weeks since she'd abandoned hope of news about her sister, whose disappearance meant her death. Her heart refused to mourn, the cycle unbroken, the farewell never granted.
After months interrogating merchants and travelers from Lesbos's port, she'd accepted that Amphipolis was a past to be left behind. Since Deucalion rescued her and Sappho took her in, abandoning them for a selfish, likely suicidal quest felt like betrayal. Yet she'd added another paragraph to her letter to the Athenian magistrates—if anyone knew of her sister's fate, it was they. And they knew, but refused to tell. Beyond the aristocratic bubble, no one spoke of the slave ship seized a moon ago at Eretria. The agony of not knowing turned to the chains of powerlessness—and she would not accept it. If Pericles denied her safe-conduct, she would find another way out of the city.
Day after day, Roxana watched Athens splinter like a cracked vase on the brink of shattering—and did nothing. She sought allies among the powerful, finding only polite smiles and vacant gazes. So she turned to scum: smugglers, deserters, thieves—shadows slipping in and out of the city unseen. Even they feared her. Elusive, suspicious, they eyed her as a trap disguised in a woman's form.
At the corner of a decaying brothel, she found a smuggler—a yellow-eyed man with rotten teeth, swathed in rags smelling of brine.
— They say you move people, she whispered, sliding a silver coin across a moldy table.
The man laughed, spitting cheap wine. — I move corpses, not foreigners. Get lost before I sell you to the Spartans.
She recoiled but did not relent. In the black market among opium barrels and chained slaves, she approached a woman with whip scars along her arms.
— I need to leave Athens. I have gold. Roxana unveiled her pouch of Lesbos-minted coins.
The woman spat on the ground. — Your kind is hunted here. Go beg magistrates, not me.
Even beggars shunned her. In a portside alley, a skeletal boy pointed at her white cloak.
— Looks like a ghost. Trade it for rags or they'll kill you before sundown.
I'm not one of you, Roxana thought, adjusting her silver brooch. But in the Agora, the boy's warning was clear: empty tents, overturned carts, and the few remaining stared at her with hatred—a well-dressed foreigner amid ruin.
Frustration coiled under her skin as her footsteps echoed across the square's emptiness. Abandoned wagons lent it a ghostly air. Something was wrong—the silence heavy with omen. She felt watched and turned to see a ragged girl hiding behind a column of a square building, the wind tugging at shuttered windows above.
Roxana approached, offering a ripe fig. — Do you know where I can find… people leaving the city? she asked, choosing her words carefully.
The girl took the fig but offered no word. Instead, filthy fingers pointed east. Before sound could follow, she glimpsed Athenian troops filing through the Agora, escorting heavy carts draped in bulging tarps. Oxen bellowed, hooves striking stone as soldiers stood taut—sensing the same electric undercurrent.
— It's a trap, a child's voice whispered behind her.
Roxana whirled but the girl had vanished. Above, the child reappeared on a low wall, torch in hand, flame dancing. Behind her, hidden in shadow, stood a massive pyre awaiting its spark.
Her heart thundered. In an instant, she understood.
She spun to flee, but wasn't fast enough. A hiss cut the air as an arrow shaved her arm, scorching flesh before lodging in the column. Hot blood spurted, searing white linen crimson. She reeled and fell to her knees, eyes wide, as chaos exploded.
Arrows rained from sealed windows, shutters ripped away by wind and flight. Soldiers shouted, trying to regroup, caught between two assaults: hidden archers above and a frenzied mob below, wielding clubs, sickles, any weapon they could find. The detachment was overrun. Men fell, trampled by their own panic. The scent of blood thickened in the sweltering air.
The wagons' contents spilled out—grain, fruit, dried meat. Desperate hands snatched provisions while others torched what they couldn't carry. Soldiers' bodies were tossed into makeshift pyres, flames soaring, embers raining.
Roxana tried to move but the crowd saw her—fine clothes, jewelry, a pale foreign scent. She was the enemy.
— Seize her! a stained-toothed woman screeched. Six men broke from the mob, swords slick with soldier's blood.
A peasant grabbed her hair and yanked her down. — Golden blood! Golden blood!
Roxana fought back, claws ripping her cloak and revealing scars on her back. Sweat and vinegar stung her nose as voices raised.
— Burn the carts! Burn the thieves!
In a frantic twist, she bit her captor's forearm and plunged her hidden dagger into his heart. He staggered back; she kicked free of two others.
Gathering herself, her shredded cloak slipping, she bolted across the square, dodging embers and debris.
She looked up to see the child's shadow vanish from the wall. An arrow soared past her shoulder, felling another pursuer. Across the square, a pyre ignited and burst into flames, engulfing a cart in seconds. She stumbled over her cloak and hit the ground, face-first, just as fresh soldiers emerged from a side alley. Flies buzzed, heralding carnage.
Roxana crawled backward but a man seized her ankles.
— You'll pay for every grain you stole!
His leering grin turned to a howl of pain as a dagger plunged into his back. The child had saved her after all. Run! she tried to shout, but the moment passed—he lashed out and the child fell. No one was left.
Roxana blinked, testing her wits, and freed herself in time to kick him in the face. She struggled upright, lungs burning, knowing she couldn't outrun them all. Her eyes found an open doorway. She lunged inside, trembling as she barred the door—old wood, rusted hinges groaning under the weight of impact on the other side.
Then hands fell on her like claws, ripping her cloak, pinning limbs. She thrashed, but the bodies crushed her. The world spun. No—again, no.
She fled her own mind, seeking distance. But nothing freed her flesh from the prison of pain. Time lost meaning—reduced to weight, to suffocation, to despair.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it ended. Her body froze, on fire and in ice. She opened her eyes to stunned faces above her. A mad laughter erupted from her throat, from her lungs, from her heart, from her soul. She pushed up on scarred arms. Her eyes burned like embers.
— YOU ARE ALL DEAD!
Behind them, the warehouse door splintered. Orange light flooded in, tangled shadows stretching. The men stiffened, sensing change. No one dared speak as a whistle shrilled. Then steel danced.
The figure in the doorway moved like a gale, sword slicing in quick, precise arcs—throats cut, stifled cries. The weight on her lifted as bodies fell. The floor slicked red.
A light, dark with shadows rather than brilliance, flooded her vision, and a person emerged, clearing corpses with his boot.
He adjusted his cloak, sheathed his sword. Roxana recognized him before he knelt by her side.
— You…? she whispered.
He said nothing. His fingers, surprisingly gentle, draped the tattered cloak over her bare shoulders. Roxana choked back a sob—one last shred of pride—and a lone tear fell as he lifted her in his arms, heedless of distant screams. In the burning Agora's chaos, he carried her like a wisp, weaving through bodies and smoldering grain stacks.
Roxana saw her reflection in his blade: disheveled hair, blood on her chin, swollen eyes.
Before darkness claimed her, her final thought was a flicker of bitter comfort: Good thing he liked my poetry.