Even after a week within the dry walls of Athens, the taste of salt lingered on Roxana's lips, a clean memory of a world that no longer existed. Here, the air was a hot breath rising from the dusty streets, heavy with the murmur of discontent and the acrid smell of disease that clung to the alleys like a shroud.
She walked the Panathenaic Way, and the silence was the city's broken meter. She stepped around the shrouded bodies of plague victims, left in the sun like offerings to an indifferent god. The wind, instead of scattering seeds, scattered scraps of papyrus bearing lists of the dead. On the walls, cries in charcoal: "The Delian League is a corpse!" and "Sparta will swallow us!"
The agora, once the city's beating heart, was an open wound. Sunken-eyed vendors offered withered fruit for the price of gold. Great Athens seemed a hollow hull, and she, a grain of sand in that desert of apathy. The magistrates, drowning in their own crises, ignored her pleas.
Finally, on the fifth day, an unwelcome invitation. Still, an invitation.
Roxana rummaged through her trunk, not for a dress, but for armor. That night's persona. She chose a simple tunic of a deep blue that accentuated the storm in her eyes and a thin white mantle over one shoulder. The contrast with her sun-scorched skin was a statement. Discreet earrings, a silver ring with green stones. She was a diplomat entering enemy territory.
As she made her way to the slopes of the Acropolis, she passed a group of aristocrats in immaculate tunics, laughing loudly as they carried amphorae to a symposium, indifferent to the hungry faces watching them from the shadows. Roxana felt her jaw clench. The injustice was a poorly written poem, and its author deserved the critique of steel.
Alcibiades's residence was a marble monster. Roxana's gaze fell on a vast Ionian tapestry that dominated the entrance: a goddess emerging from a lake, her beauty as breathtaking as it was cruel, surrounded by men drowning in her golden hair. A shiver ran down her spine. It was Athens.
The sounds of decay hit her: shrill laughter, the shattering of a cup, the groan of an out-of-tune lyre. A bloodshot-eyed servant guided her through corridors where the smell of spilled wine mixed with expensive incense, a futile attempt to perfume the rot. She moved forward, her steps firm, ignoring the bodies languidly arranged on cushions and the covetous gazes that followed her.
There, in the triclinium, Alcibiades reclined, a golden cup in fingers that gleamed with perfumed oil. His eyes fixed on her with a lazy, hungry intensity.
— Ah, the flower of Lesbos! — he exclaimed, rising with theatrical elegance. — Have you come to water my garden with your pleas?
— You know why I am here — Roxana said, her voice controlled, each syllable a polished stone.
He laughed, a sound that made the others fall silent.
— So serious! Politics can wait. First, wine. — He pulled her by the wrist, a casual possession. His fingers traced the outline of the scar on her arm. A light, probing touch. — Quite a mark… a slave? — he whispered, his hot breath smelling of wine.
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of power.
The sensation of his touch was like a branding iron. The memory of the whip and the salt burned under her skin. A taste of ashes filled her mouth. For an instant, the world vanished, and a cold, ancient voice hissed in her soul: Kill him. A sharp pain pierced her skull, but her face remained a mask of calm.
She tore her arm from his grasp, the movement sharp and final.
— I am an envoy from Lesbos. And I demand an audience.
Alcibiades held up his hands in a gesture of false surrender.
— Patience, my dear. Drink. Watch. Learn how power truly works in Athens.
He handed her a cup and turned his back. The real torment began. He made her wait. For hours. Roxana remained standing, motionless as a statue, the untouched cup in her hand, as the party unraveled like a festering wound. She saw a magistrate vomit into the fern pots. She heard Alcibiades tell a vulgar story about a merchant's wife, provoking cruel laughter. She listened to a poem recited with so much wine in the voice that the words stumbled over one another. He ignored her, but every so often, his eyes would meet hers, a glint of amusement questioning her: Have you given up yet?
Finally, when the night was spent, a servant summoned her to his private chambers. There, on a bed of scarlet fabrics, Alcibiades was half-naked, as insolent as a satyr.
— Tired of waiting? Sit. — He nodded toward a spot on the floor, as if speaking to a dog.
The rage was a brazier in Roxana's stomach, but she swallowed the flames. Clenching her teeth, she sat in a chair across the room, creating a distance. He smiled at the small act of rebellion.
— Speak. I'm listening.
As she laid out the crisis in Lesbos, the crumbling alliance, the Spartan threat, his mask of indifference began to crack. Not from pity, but from calculation. She saw it: a hardening of his jaw when she mentioned the loss of tax revenues from Chios, a gleam in his eyes as they darted to the shadows. He cared, but not for the right reasons.
— I will present your case to the council — he said at last, his voice bored. — Don't delude yourself. It will be buried. There are… greater urgencies.
— More urgent than your League being on the verge of collapse? — Roxana leaned forward, her voice a hiss.
He let out a dull laugh.
— Lesbos is a distant island. Here, laments are just background noise.
— Then we have nothing more to discuss. — She stood up.
— Wait. — The word stopped her at the door. He leaned back, pleased that he still had control. — Perhaps I can be of use in another matter. Something more… personal. A Macedonian trireme was recently captured… with a cargo of slaves from Pella.
Roxana's heart stopped. The burning harbor, the bodies in the sea foam.
— Where? — The word came out scratched.
Alcibiades smiled, the grin of a predator savoring the moment. — Ask Pericles. He still pretends to care about the fate of… individuals. — He spat out the last word. — Now, why don't you stay? The night is still young.
— Thank you — she said, her voice frigid. — I have more important matters.
She turned. Before she could reach the handle, the door burst open and a group of half-naked men stormed into the room. The drunkest of them bumped into her, knocking over her purse. Silver coins from Lesbos rolled and tinkled across the marble.
Alcibiades leaned down and picked one up. He held it between his thumb and forefinger.
— Pretty… — he murmured, turning it so she could see the effigy of her homeland. — But here in Athens, utterly worthless.
With a sudden flick, he tossed the coin into the fire where the remains of a roasted pig still crackled. The silver hissed and was swallowed by the flames.
Roxana did not give him the satisfaction of a reaction. She turned and walked out, her steps firm. The streets were darker, the weight of the city crushing her. Yet, a spark of determination burned hotter than Alcibiades's fire. He had given her a weapon without realizing it. A name: Pericles. And Roxana was an expert at using her enemies' weapons against them.