The third krater of watered-down wine was emptying. The tavern hall vibrated with laughter and the creaking of floorboards. Stentor, the quartermaster, was at the height of his performance.
— And they came from the sea! Hair of seaweed and teeth like daggers! — he bellowed, his eyes glazed. — They even stole the boots off the dead!
— And why didn't they take you, you old liar? — a sailor shouted.
— Because I played dead! And when I woke up, there were… goats. Walking on two legs! And laughing!
The circle exploded in laughter. Cadmus swirled his cup, the reflection of the flame dancing in the liquid. Fools, he thought. They filled the shadows with monsters because the real horror—the silence of dying men—was too simple, too real. He knew that feeling well.
— That's what drinking this piss-water does to you — Cadmus said, his voice cutting through the laughter. — A man starts seeing excuses to relieve himself with animals in the forest.
The tension broke in a new wave of laughter. Cadmus watched the light in his cup. On the murky surface, he didn't see his own reflection, but hers. The poetess. She wasn't performing, he thought for the hundredth time. She was bleeding on that stage. An illogical need, a compulsion he didn't understand, pulsed within him: to tell her that he had seen. That he had understood.
The creak of the door announced Demosthenes. Out of his armor, he crossed the room and downed a mug in a single gulp.
— Another quiet day? — Cadmus asked.
— Bureaucracy. The reward for a successful campaign is another campaign. I leave for Megara soon.
— At least you kept your head.
— At least there's that. — The sarcasm didn't hide the bitterness. — And you? Have you considered Pericles's offer?
— I'd rather be a wolf than a puppet.
— And Thebes?
The question hung in the air.
— No. — Cadmus's chest tightened. — Why didn't you tell him... about my uncle?
Demosthenes took a long drink.
— Your uncle is a powerful man. Pericles, a desperate one. In times of war, a valuable nephew can become a bargaining chip.
Silence settled. Then, Demosthenes leaned in, a sly smile touching his lips.
— I saw you watching the poetess with interest.
Before Cadmus could answer, the door opened. Roxana entered like a night breeze, and Cadmus's world narrowed. She walked straight to the counter. For a moment, her eyes met his, reflecting surprise before they locked. Demosthenes gave him a subtle nudge.
— Go.
Cadmus stood, his heart hammering a stupid, undisciplined beat. He got close enough to catch her scent: myrrh and ink, mixed with the dust of the road.
— What you sang… — he began, his voice hoarse. — It wasn't for them.
She raised an eyebrow, an amused glint in her eyes.
— No? And who was it for, Spartan?
He blinked.
— How…?
— The complete inability to hold a simple conversation is usually a clue. Besides the accent.
— Should I take that as an offense?
— Why? Are you ashamed of your roots?
He didn't answer. Instead, she saw him take an almond from his pocket.
— Almonds. You're a merchant, I imagine.
— A merchant?
The indignation on his face was so genuine that a crystalline laugh escaped her, a sound that seemed both out of place and perfect in that grimy tavern.
— Sorry! I had to see your face.
— Now I'm offended — Cadmus said, but a reluctant smile, which he tried to crush, betrayed him.
For an instant, a lightness hovered between them. But then his smile faltered, and beneath that moment, she saw the warrior, the man who had been with Pericles. Her guard went up, instantly. The light in her eyes died, replaced by a cold, analytical gleam.
— What did you want with Pericles? — Her voice was lower, sharper. — Did he send you to spy on me?
The question hit him with the weight of every other suspicion he had ever faced. His brief smile vanished.
— Traitor. Spy. Wolf. — His voice was low, tired, each word a scar. — It seems everyone has already decided what I am.
His unexpected vulnerability disarmed her. She made a move to respond, but her silence was, to him, a confirmation. Frustration rose in his throat. Pericles was right. He raised his mug in a silent, bitter toast and turned to leave.
— Wait.
Her voice stopped him at the door. He turned. She was watching him from across the hall, a solitary figure in the midst of the chaos.
— My name is Roxana.
He looked at her for a long moment. Then a strange, wild, and painful smile tore across his face. The smile of a man who was tired of being misunderstood and had decided to break the rules of the game. He raised his mug high, his voice rising over the tavern's noise.
— CHEERS FOR ROXANA!
The hall, confused, erupted in a few scattered shouts and applause. Roxana stood paralyzed, watching him. And, to the sound of her own name being absurdly acclaimed, she watched him walk out into the silence of the night.