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.