Two days of waiting. Finally, the port opened, not with relief, but with a sigh of smoke. The smell of salt mingled with that of tar and wet wood—the perfume of defeat. Ahead, six triremes lay like the carcasses of beached whales, their cracked hulls exposing twisted beams like broken bones. Intermittent fires still licked at their structures, a slow hunger devouring what was left. Tactically, it was a disaster. A vulnerable port.
They disembarked, the ground groaning under their feet. There was no time to feel the solidity of the earth. An Athenian garrison, led by a man with clouded eyes, moved to intercept them. The officer wore a cuirass so polished it reflected the flames, but his face was a grim mask. He wielded a scroll, the city's seal hanging from it like an axe.
— Demosthenes and his crew — he announced, his voice devoid of emotion. — By order of the Boule, your trireme is seized. You are to remain in confinement.
The order hung in the air, cold.
Demosthenes laughed. A dry sound, like a branch snapping.
— Good to see you, Bias. I see you've joined the circus as well.
— You know the procedure — the officer replied, his gaze deliberately avoiding Demosthenes's, a small act of insubordination that did not go unnoticed.
Behind Demosthenes, a soldier stepped forward. His mouth opened, but his voice was silenced by the wall of spears that rose, a hesitant and poorly coordinated movement. Cadmus bit the inside of his cheek. In Sparta, such disorder would be met with the whip. Here, it seemed to be the norm.
— That's enough! — Demosthenes's voice cut through the tension. He looked at his men, then at Bias's. — Men, lower your weapons. Lead the way.
They were herded like cattle through streets teeming with a chaos that pretended to be order. Troop after troop marched, but without the cohesive rhythm of an army—it was the frantic scurrying of ants in a disturbed colony. Cadmus watched, a stranger in a land devouring itself. A man shouted from atop an overturned cart. Women dragged chests, children cried, clutching eyeless rag dolls. A soldier ran past, a sack of grain leaking flour, or perhaps ash.
They were taken to a stone building, a cold place where the smell of mildew mixed with sour sweat. The men were pushed into collective cells. From the ceiling, a thick liquid dripped. Cadmus leaned against the cold, damp wall, his gaze following a spider weaving its web between the bars—a creature of patience and order in a place where time went to die.
The hours dragged on.
Finally, the echo of firm steps preceded the Polemarch's arrival. When he appeared, his figure resembled weathered steel: cold and scarred. He and Demosthenes faced each other through the bars, two lions sizing each other up.
— Late, Demosthenes — the Polemarch said, his voice a rough noise.
— Storm — Demosthenes retorted, his arms crossed. — What is this? My men treated like Thracian slaves?
The Polemarch let out a laugh that was pure poison.
— This? This is what's left. Syracuse… a disaster. The sea swallowed them. Alcibiades fled. The survivors babble about strange tides… Hysteria. But the fear is real.
— And what does that have to do with us?
— They need scapegoats! — The Polemarch stepped closer, his voice dropping to an urgent hiss, his eyes darting toward the guards at the end of the corridor. — Ships that didn't arrive in time. Orders that weren't followed. You and yours are the perfect scapegoat. — His gaze shifted and landed on Cadmus, a flicker of recognition and disgust. — And you brought a Spartan to our funeral. Bold.
Demosthenes gripped the bars, the veins in his neck bulging.
— You know perfectly well the purpose of my mission! You know who he is!
— I know! — the Polemarch cut in, casting a quick glance at the other cells. — But the rats in the walls don't. And the shadows listening to us don't either. Do you want me to shout to the whole city that you went to Ionia while our boys were dying in Syracuse?
Demosthenes let go of the bars, defeated.
— That's what I thought — the man continued, his anger giving way to a bitter weariness. — The rules of the game have changed. — The jingle of a single bronze key cut the silence. He didn't hand it over. He pressed it into Demosthenes's palm through the bars. — Pericles still has some influence. Perhaps. He's waiting for you. Go. Now. And leave through the back. I don't want your blood on my hands.
He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing.
The exit was swift. As they returned to the daylight, Cadmus stepped on a crushed fig, its red pulp staining the stone like fresh blood. A dozen guards loyal to the Polemarch waited for them, their faces impassive. They walked to the heart of Athens under an evening sky that looked like a bruise. In the distance, the Acropolis rose, golden and indifferent, a monument built on bones.
Cadmus looked back at the still-smoldering port. Demosthenes stopped, following his gaze.
— From a distance, it looks like the same city, doesn't it? — His voice was low, devoid of hope. — Don't be fooled.
Cadmus didn't answer. At that moment, a seagull landed on a nearby rock. Its wings, once white, were stained with soot. The bird shook itself, once, twice, but the dark stain remained.