The scent of monkshood and mint mingled with the sweat that clung to the chamber's air. At the corner writing desk, Roxana bit her lip until it bled, wincing as she rubbed the salve the maid had left on the wounds across her back. Each touch drew an involuntary gasp. Her fingers trembled as they traced the purplish bruises interlaced with old scars—a tortured tree's rootwork. At least one arm still works, she thought, pulling up her left sleeve to tend the deep cut on her shoulder from the arrow. Healing was underway but the smell was sickly sweet and the coarse cloth stung like tiny needles. Her brow burned with fever. In the fogged mirror, she saw the dropped cloak on the floor, stained with pus and ink.
A week had passed since Pericles welcomed them under his roof. The weight of a city reborn after rebellion pressed down on them all. Smoke and muffled explosions drifted through the streets, mixed with moans and cries. After the Agora attack, Cadmus carried her to the tavern where they first spoke. The innkeeper and his daughter sheltered them until Demosthenes and his troops arrived—broken the riot and escorted them to Pericles's mansion, where they received every comfort and the finest healers. Roxana had it all—and more.
Yet the chamber was vast, cold, silent. Too grand for comfort, too empty for her—like a marble mouth swallowing her whole. She knew she'd been given safety, but gratitude felt like a debt with a price.
That morning, she traded beauty for pragmatism, draping herself in a dark, lightweight cloak to hide bloodstains. Her hair was unwashed and tied back; fever made her skin shine with sweat.
When she emerged onto the veranda, dawn's golden light draped the gardens. Her gaze settled on the figure by the lake—Cadmus, perched on the bank, elbows on knees, stirring the water into widening ripples that fractured the cloud reflections. His old helm lay at his side like a weary hound.
Roxana climbed the stairs but hesitated, fearful he'd notice her. Since their arrival, they had avoided each other—brief nods in corridors and guttural greetings at best. She had no clue what to say to the man who'd saved her; their last encounter had felt strange. Seeing him cry had awakened something in her—she wasn't sure what.
Footsteps broke her reverie. Pericles appeared, flanked by two guards, whom he dismissed with a wave before approaching.
— How is the maid's care? his voice was quiet, measured.
Roxana nodded, eyes flicking to Cadmus who raised his head at the sound.
— Excellent. Your courage impresses, Roxana. Pericles regarded her as though charting a campaign map. — But courage without allies is a poem without an audience.
— How…? she choked out, before he cut her off.
— I learned of your plans before you were attacked. Trying to slip out of Athens? Bold.
Roxana held her silence, eyes questioning.
Pericles folded his arms.
— Some merchants, after enough persuasion, recalled a meddlesome aristocrat haunting the flea markets like an omen.
They were distracted by a soft plop—the stone Cadmus had just tossed into the lake. Ripples swelled; water threatened to spill over.
— Look, Pericles continued— I admit I overlooked your petition at first. Forgive me. These times are… complex. Yet I couldn't help but be intrigued by your offer. Shall we reopen that negotiation? he spread his arms, forcing a wry smile. — How many ships do you think Deucalion can muster for us?
Roxana's fists clenched, scars throbbing.
— After two weeks of pleading, and now… the wind shifts?
— The rebellion was a turning point—tragic, unavoidable, Pericles sighed, dark circles under his eyes— Now the other magistrates can't ignore the sea. We've lost Thebes, Mégara hangs by a thread. Our people need food, air… Without a seaborne lifeline, Athens will crumble before Sparta reaches our walls.
Roxana met his gaze, jaw firm.
— Deucalion barely raises his head. But Sappho and the old families could rally island allies—one or two dozen ships, perhaps.
Pericles inclined his head, satisfied.
— I'll issue the decree soon.
She paused, then steeled her tone.
— And the ship seized at Eretria… any updates? Crew list, cargo, location?
The strategist's lips thinned.
— I will not discuss that again.
Cadmus lifted his head, reflecting Pericles in the water. Roxana squared her shoulders.
— I need to know…
— There's nothing. Repeat: nothing! Pericles rubbed his temples in exasperation— But if you seek answers, aid my fleet. I can call in favors in Eretria…
He turned, leaving her with empty hands and bitter taste.
— Write to Sappho, Pericles commanded as he departed.
Roxana nodded, summoning the maid.
— Bring ink and parchment.
Silence draped the garden. Cadmus exhaled, hands on knees, helm glinting.
— Why care so much about that ship? he asked, voice rough as crumbling ruins.
Roxana's laugh was dry.
— Because I escaped. She didn't.
— She?
He rose, legs stiff from hours by the lake.
Roxana didn't answer. Instead, she looked at him and said, quietly but firmly:
— I want to thank you—for helping me. I judged you wrongly.
Cadmus arched an eyebrow.
— How so?
— I thought you didn't care. she paused.
He managed a short, bitter laugh.
— I do.
He stepped closer, the scent of iron and ash around them. They stood, unblinking. An awkward moment held.
— And you? he both spoke at once.
Roxana's genuine laughter broke the tension; Cadmus offered a half-smile but his gaze returned to the lake's mirror.
— Cadmus… Why were you crying that day?
He flinched, face twisting at the memories. Her question hung.
Heavy footsteps announced Demosthenes entering the garden in armor, soot on his face. He didn't pause.
— I leave for Mégara at dawn.
His armor caught the early light. Roxana frowned.
— And the situation in the Agora? she asked.
Demosthenes finally noticed her.
— It'll sort itself. Bigger priorities.
He grabbed Cadmus's arm, thrusting a parchment sealed with the Athenian owl.
— If you still intend to go to Thebes, a general there awaits.
Cadmus accepted the scroll, earth-smudged fingers. They clasped hands, firm but brief.
— Good luck.
Demosthenes turned to Roxana, inspecting her scars.
— Care for her well?
She only nodded. He left.
Silence returned until Roxana broke it:
— You're going to Thebes? Why?
Cadmus's quiet laugh was almost lost in the dawn.
— Why, indeed. He spread his arms in weary shrug.
He didn't know.
He left.
Roxana remained, gripping the parchment. On the lake, Cadmus's ripples had vanished; the surface was a cracked mirror once more.