The building was a ring of cold marble, a terrible tactical ground. The circular benches created countless blind spots, and the polished floor turned every footstep into an echo, betraying any movement. In the last row, wrapped in shadows that the architecture did not justify, a lone figure watched them.
The Polemarch raised an arm, blocking Cadmus's path. His voice was low.
— He awaits you. You alone.
— I am certain Pericles will want my report — Demosthenes retorted, his body a block of defiance.
— He will have your report. This man will not.
— That is not for you to decide. — Demosthenes's reply was a thunderclap waiting for a target.
The Polemarch's brow tightened. His gaze measured Cadmus, assessing not the man, but the weapon.
— The weapons stay here.
Cadmus hesitated. A warrior without his blade is a naked man. Slowly, he removed his gladius and handed it to a guard, memorizing the man's face. As they turned, the Polemarch's voice cut through the air.
— The dagger, too.
Both froze. Demosthenes turned just in time to see Cadmus draw the short blade hidden in his cloak. A shadow of a smile touched the Polemarch's lips.
— I figured you wouldn't disappoint me. A Spartan is never truly unarmed. — He gestured to the guard. — Demosthenes, you know my opinion. The responsibility is yours.
When the guards moved away, Demosthenes pulled Cadmus aside, his voice an urgent whisper.
— Listen well. Every word, every glance. Until we find out who the wolves are and who the lambs are, the only thing separating your head from a chopping block is my word. Understood?
Cadmus nodded, his jaw tight.
Finally, they entered the hall. As they approached, the man in the shadows looked up. It was Pericles. The scarce light accentuated his deep-set dark circles, but his eyes burned with a tireless intelligence that seemed to consume his very face.
— Demosthenes — he greeted, his voice firm. — And I imagine this is our… guest.
— General — Demosthenes returned. — This is Cadmus. He is capable and loyal.
Pericles narrowed his eyes, his gaze passing over Cadmus as if reading the scars beneath his tunic.
— Loyalty is a curious thing. It leaves marks. And I see many on this man. None of them Athenian. Did he leave your sight at any moment?
— I was not his prisoner — Cadmus interjected, his voice resonating against the marble.
— Indeed. — Pericles stood and descended the steps slowly, beginning to circle them like a wolf assessing stray sheep. — Then you tell me, Cadmus of Sparta. What is a wolf doing so far from its pack? Have you come to hunt, or merely to watch our lambs be slaughtered?
— Neither — Cadmus answered, motionless, the muscles tense under his tunic.
— No? — Pericles stopped behind him, his voice now a dangerous murmur. — I know men like you. Forged in fire and silence. You cannot stand peace. The silence bothers you, doesn't it? It brings back… memories? Do the nightmares still visit you, Spartan?
The question wasn't a question; it was a blow. For an instant, Cadmus felt his hands, hot and sticky, the smell of earth and blood. He looked down at them. Nothing. Pericles, now back in front of him, watched, a glint of triumph in his eyes. He had found the first crack.
— Wolves are useful — Pericles continued, his voice softer now. — Lambs are only good for sacrifice. And right now, I need a wolf. — He stopped beside a map. He pointed to Megara. — The situation is deteriorating. I need you to go there, Demosthenes. As for the Boule's accusations… — He laughed, a bitter sound. — Theatrics. Tell them your mission is your punishment.
His finger slid across the map to Boeotia.
— Here, the problem is different. Our scouts report more than hoplites. They speak of old songs on the wind and of shadows that move where there are no men. And in the midst of all that superstition… Thebes has fallen.
— Who commands the detachment? — Cadmus's voice came out louder than he intended.
Pericles turned slowly, savoring the moment.
— Why the interest?
— Curiosity.
— I'm sure it is. The commander is a certain Anchises, of the Agiads.
The name hit Cadmus like a punch to the gut. The air fled his lungs. Pine and cold iron. A voice saying his name with a scorn that froze the bones.
— Spartan to the core, that Anchises — Pericles observed, his narrow eyes reading Cadmus's reaction. — They say he flays deserters himself. Loyalties are hard to erase, aren't they?
— Cadmus is not one of them — Demosthenes intervened.
— Of course. — Pericles smiled, a gesture devoid of warmth. — And I imagine you now very much want to go to Boeotia. — He held up a safe-conduct pass. — I can arrange it. On one condition: you will go as Demosthenes's hound. You will do as he commands. And that is not a request.
— It is not my war — Cadmus said, his voice low, regaining his composure. He turned and walked toward the exit.
— Cadmus! — Pericles's voice lashed out at him. — To Athens, you are a Spartan. To Sparta, you are a traitor. Who do you serve, in the end? Remember: Sparta never leaves the blood.
Cadmus stopped but did not turn. He kept walking.
As he left the building, in the gloom of the corridor, a figure partially blocked the passage. A woman of proud bearing and eyes that seemed to analyze everything. He stopped for a guard to return his weapons. He felt her gaze on him as he sheathed his gladius, and then the dagger.
— I thought blades were not permitted in here — she said. Her voice was calm, but with a timbre of steel.
Another test, he thought, tired of these games.
— Only for those who don't know how to hide them — Cadmus retorted, walking past her.
She didn't move.
— Did you find what you were looking for?
He stopped, turning slightly. His gaze swept over her. She was not a supplicant. She was a huntress.
— And you?
A ghost of a smile touched her lips.
— Not yet.
She then turned and entered the hall from which he had come, disappearing into the shadows and leaving behind a scent of myrrh and new papyrus. For an instant, Cadmus was intrigued. Then, he shrugged and went on his way, Pericles's words echoing in his mind like an omen.