The hot wind blew over Athens, carrying the scent of incense and dust. For days Roxana had walked the alleys, following rumors like poisoned breadcrumbs. The information from Alcibiades about the ship had become an obsession.
She turned to the dregs.
A smuggler laughed in her face. A skeletal boy pointed to her tunic: "That's a ghost's color. Trade it for rags, or they'll kill you."
She ignored him. But upon entering the agora, she realized the boy was right. The square was deserted. A heavy, unnatural silence, like the air before a storm. The wind whistled between the empty columns. She felt watched.
Behind a column, she saw a shape—a ragged girl, who vanished as soon as their eyes met.
A rhythmic sound broke the silence: an Athenian detachment, escorting covered wagons.
— It's a trap — a child's voice whispered from behind her.
Roxana spun around. No one. A movement above. On a low wall, the small figure held a lit torch. Her heart hammered. She turned to run. A sharp whistle. The arrow tore through her arm, a burning gash.
The world exploded.
Arrows from windows. Screams from the soldiers. And from the alleys, came hunger. A mass of people brandishing clubs, scythes, and hatred. The wagons' tarps were ripped away, revealing the treasure: grain, dried meat. Roxana tried to move, but a pair of bloodshot eyes landed on her. Fine clothes. Silver earrings. Enemy.
— Get her! — A peasant grabbed her by the hair. Pain. The smell of garlic. Rough hands on her mantle. The scar exposed. She bit down. A scream. The taste of blood and dirt. The hidden dagger, a blind motion, a dull thud. He fell.
She ran. The torn mantle a broken wing. She stumbled, fell, dust in her mouth. A man pulled her by the ankles, his lewd grin dissolving into a roar. The little girl, appearing from nowhere, a rusty dagger between the man's ribs. A shadow. Vanished. Roxana took her chance: a kick to his face.
Her gaze found the half-open door of a warehouse. She threw herself inside. The door slammed shut. It wasn't enough. The impact from outside threw her to the ground. Then, the hands. Claws gripping her neck, her chest, her legs. The mantle being torn. The weight of bodies crushing her. The smell of sweat and vinegar.
An echo. The same smell. The same hands. No. Not again.
Her panic reached its limit and broke. The sound of the fight outside, her own muffled groans, all of it faded, replaced by an icy silence inside her head. The fear died, and in its place, a terrible, pure, and murderous clarity was born. Her body was a frozen fire.
She reopened her eyes. An insane, guttural laugh escaped from the depths of her soul, a voice that was not hers tearing through Roxana's veil.
— YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD!
Behind them, the warehouse door exploded into splinters. An orange glow from the fire outside silhouetted a figure in the entrance. A sharp whistle. The blade danced.
For Roxana, on the floor, it was a release. The weight on her eased. A wet sound of steel meeting flesh. A hot spray of blood on her face. A body fell beside her, limp and heavy. Then another. She didn't see a fight. She saw boots moving with impossible speed on the dusty floor. She heard groans that ended in gurgles. Throats being cut. The floor became a sticky sea.
The last weight disappeared. The figure sheathed his sword, a fluid and final motion. He approached, pushing a body aside with his boot. He knelt. She already knew who it was. The Spartan.
— You...? — she whispered.
He didn't answer. His fingers, surprisingly gentle, adjusted what was left of the torn mantle over her bare shoulders, covering her.
The gesture broke her. That small act of dignity in the midst of the carnage. A sob escaped her, a remnant of pride undone. A single tear ran down her cheek and turned into a convulsive cry the moment he lifted her into his arms, his strong body a shield against the world.
In the chaos of the burning agora, he carried her, weaving around corpses and smoldering piles of wheat. Roxana saw her own reflection in the wide blade of his sword: disheveled hair, blood on her chin, swollen eyes. Before her consciousness dissolved into darkness, Roxana had one last thought, a spark of gallows humor in the middle of hell:
Good thing he liked my poetry.