The trireme's steady roll was relentless, a back-and-forth motion that seemed in tune with the groans of the timbers under strain. Cadmus squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the salty tang of the sea that flooded his nostrils, mingled with the rank stench of rotten fish and brine that permeated the hold. The cabin was cramped, claustrophobic, and the slap of waves against the hull sounded like a distant drum, hammering at his ears. He tried to focus on the heavy footfalls of soldiers marching above him, but the nausea persisted—a twisting sickness rising in his throat and settling like a clenched fist in his gut.
He rolled onto his side on the narrow bunk, cold sweat slicking his temples. His hands trembled and he buried them beneath the coarse blanket, as if he could conceal his own weakness. Outside, the wind howled, carrying whispers of voices he couldn't quite make out. Demosthenes was out there somewhere, issuing orders in that calm, commanding voice that dared the chaos to challenge him. Cadmus clung to the memory of it, but the sea would have none of it. The sea never relented.
When sleep finally claimed him, it dragged him to a darker place.
He was back on that fateful night of the Krypteia, with the moon slicing through the sky like a scythe. The forest was damp; the air hung heavy with the scent of wet earth and rotting leaves. In the distance, he could hear waves crashing against rocks. He ran, but his feet sank into the mud, each step a Herculean effort.
Behind him came guttural screams—no words, just raw, desperate sounds. He knew what would come next. It always did. "I don't want to do this," he tried to plead, but the words died in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, but his hands were busy clutching something heavy and hot, like fresh blood. Shadowy figures took shape, faces twisted in accusation, and the weight of the blade in his grasp grew unbearably heavy. Someone screamed—his own voice?—and the earth drank deep as corpses sprouted all around. Everything dissolved in an instant into a whirlwind of darkness.
He woke with a gasp, sweat coursing down his neck like spring water. His heart drummed a warbeat. The cabin was pitch-black, but the ship's roll confirmed he was still trapped on that floating inferno. He drew a ragged breath, trying to wash away the bitter aftertaste of the nightmare. His hands clutched the damp blanket, and it took him a full minute to realize the cries he'd been making came from his own lips. They were the hands of a warrior, scarred and calloused—but in that moment, they felt fragile, almost alien.
Footsteps approached, and the door creaked open. Demosthenes stepped in without knocking, bringing with him the scent of wine and olive oil. His stride was sure, even on the unsteady deck. The lamp in his hand cast dancing shadows on the wooden walls, and though his face was drawn, his eyes burned with a resolve Cadmus secretly admired.
— The storm set us back, but it seems the gods haven't abandoned us yet. Salamis is close.
He tossed a hunk of hard bread into Cadmus's lap. — Eat. You look like a corpse.
Cadmus eyed the bread warily. It was the color of clay, and the thought of chewing it made his stomach churn. Demosthenes laughed softly, that low chuckle he reserved for moments too grim for anything else.
— Come see for yourself. The Temple of Poseidon is up there, shining like a beacon. Almost makes the shipwreck worth it.
Cadmus nodded but didn't move right away. He still felt the weight of the dream, as if it had branded him with invisible scars. Demosthenes lingered a beat, as though giving him space, then slipped out and closed the door gently.
Cadmus stared at the slivers of light seeping beneath the door, trying to forget that beneath them the dark waters swallowed everything—even memories.
He rose slowly, the cold, uneven decking rough under his bare feet. The sickness was still there, but now it felt familiar, almost comforting. In the corner, his father's helmet glinted faintly. Clang. Clang. He tapped it twice—a metal ritual to ground himself to something solid when everything else threatened to fall apart.
On deck, the icy wind struck him like a fist. He clenched his jaw, feeling the salt-laden breeze cling to his skin. He gripped the rail until his knuckles went white, and there it was: the endless sea stretching before him, merciless and infinite. On the horizon, Cape Sounion rose like a sentinel. Atop its cliff, the marble columns of the Temple of Poseidon stood stark against the gray sky, so perfect they pained him to look at.
A band of Athenian soldiers laughed somewhere behind him, their voices muted by the roar of the waves. Demosthenes stood at the prow, motionless, as if daring the god himself to challenge him. Cadmus approached but said nothing. Instead, he simply stood there, feeling the ship's motion under his feet and the burden of the sea pressing in on him.
Demosthenes offered him a waterskin. — Nice, isn't it?
Cadmus didn't answer. The Temple of Poseidon watched him in silence, judging.
He pulled a chestnut from his pocket, chewing it until it turned to bitter paste. The taste was better than fear.
That image of the temple stayed with him long after he left the deck. The wind smelled of salt and the crew's restless anticipation. When the mist finally swallowed the horizon, he knew they were near Salamis. Laughter died away; a heavy silence fell—the hush before a battle, or a funeral.
The fog lay thick, a dirty veil hiding Athens in the distance. The trireme nosed into the Salamis inlet, sails slack and flapping like broken wings. Cadmus leaned on the rail, his fingers digging into the damp wood, watching the distant harbor of Piraeus. A heavy chain barred its mouth, and the watchtowers stood empty—no sound, no movement. Inside the walls, thin columns of smoke curled skyward, mixing with the clouds.
The crew disembarked in weary lines. One young soldier spat on the ground, his spit joining the salt-slaked mud.
— Three months, he grumbled, rubbing his curly beard. Three months fighting and no hot bath in sight.
No one laughed. They drifted across the beach, unfurling torn cloaks and trying to coax fire from damp driftwood. The acrid smoke made Cadmus cough; he stepped back, gnawing on another chestnut, this one so hard he felt it crack between his teeth.
Demosthenes appeared by his side, silent as ever. He held a parchment, its seals broken, the paper creased and worn.
— They sent us here like stray dogs, he muttered more to himself than to Cadmus. Something's wrong in Athens.
Cadmus stared out to sea. In the enclosed harbor, gulls wheeled overhead, their cries shrill as lost children. Always the gulls, he thought. Always the sea.
That night, whispers spread through the camp.
— They say the plague has returned, a rower hissed, huddled by the fire.
— It's not plague, cut in another, sharpening his knife on a boot. It's treachery. Spartans have spies everywhere.
A dry laugh floated nearby.
— Spies? Do you think Sparta needs spies? Look at us—rags with swords.
Cadmus slipped into the shadows by a boulder, the cold sand seeping through his sandals, the stench of rotting fish from abandoned nets in his nostrils. Demosthenes found him there, holding out a waterskin filled with thin wine.
— Drink, he commanded. Thirst will kill us faster than war.
Cadmus gulped. The sour wine burned his throat. He wondered how many bodies those waters had already claimed.
At dawn, a furtive-eyed merchant rowed ashore. He brought news—and dried figs, which the soldiers devoured like beasts.
— The harbor's closed while the assembly debates 'contamination risks,' he said, avoiding their eyes. But some say the people are rising against the magistrates. Hunger makes even rats turn on their masters.
Demosthenes listened in silence, his fingers drumming on his sword's hilt. Cadmus watched a group of children dart across the beach, their bare feet leaving smudges in the sand. One clutched a headless rag doll.
By evening, Cadmus climbed a nearby hill. From there, Athens was a pale blot on the horizon, shrouded in mist. The wind carried distant sounds—perhaps hammering iron, or someone's sorrowful cry. Below, a fishing boat lurked in circles, as if searching for something it could never find.
Back at camp, a soldier screamed at Demosthenes, face flushed with rage and wine.
— We're not rotting here for Athens! he shouted, brandishing a rusty spear. If Athens doesn't want us, let its rotten politicians burn!
Demosthenes didn't flinch.
— You'll die of old age before I allow a mutiny, he replied calmly, his hand resting on his gladius.
Cadmus slipped away again. He spotted a half-eaten fig on the ground, ants crawling over it, and chewed it slowly. The bittersweet flavor stirred something in him he couldn't name—perhaps a time when hunger was only a word, not a constant companion.
Far off, the Temple of Poseidon still stood watch, a silent reminder of gods who see—and maybe judge. Athens, once the beating heart of the Greek world, now teetered on the brink of something uncertain and devastating.
Above, the gulls still cried.