The scent of aconite and mint mingled with the sweat of a fever. Roxana bit her lip until she tasted blood, twisting to apply the ointment to the wounds on her back. Every touch drew a gasp from her. In the polished bronze mirror, she saw the bruised lesions merging with the old scars, a map of pain. At least one arm still works, she thought, medicating the deep cut on her shoulder.
It had been a week since they had become Pericles's "guests." Guests, or prisoners in luxury. The room was vast, cold, and far too silent. She felt like a bird in a gilded cage, suffocated by the polished marble while, outside, she heard the distant echoes of a wounded city.
She chose a mantle of light fabric, dyed in dark tones to hide the marks. She stepped out onto the balcony. The morning light spilled over the gardens. And then she saw him. Cadmus.
He was sitting at the edge of the lake, elbows on his knees, his old helmet resting beside him like a faithful hound. He was not relaxed. He leaned over and dipped his hand in the water, but pulled it back suddenly, as if burned by the cold. He stared at the surface, his posture tense, as if the lake were returning a gaze he did not understand.
They had been avoiding each other since they arrived. Fleeting encounters in the corridors, nods, grunts instead of words. She didn't know what to say to the man who had saved her, and he seemed like a man who wanted nothing said to him. She hesitated to go down.
Firm steps on the marble announced Pericles. He dismissed the guards with a gesture.
— Has the maid been useful? — Pericles's voice was low, but his gaze examined Roxana's wounds like a general inspecting a battle map.
Roxana nodded.
— Your courage is impressive. But courage without strategy is a poem with no audience.
— How did you know?
— I knew of your forays into the black market even before the attack — he said, bluntly. — An aristocrat asking dangerous questions. Bold. And predictable.
She remained silent, her chin held high in defiance.
— The riot was a turning point — Pericles continued, walking past her to look out at the city. His shoulders seemed bent under the weight of the state. — Tragic, yes. But useful. Now, the other magistrates can no longer ignore the danger. We have lost Thebes. Megara is hanging by a thread. If we don't find a way through by sea, Athens will crumble.
He turned, and a wan smile, devoid of any warmth, touched his lips.
— So, let us reopen our negotiation. How many ships can Sappho and the other families gather?
Indignation rose in her throat, hot as bile. He had used her suffering, the chaos, as political leverage. With his arms crossed, Pericles simply watched her with a calculated calm, waiting for her fury to exhaust itself.
— You've changed your mind? — her voice cut the silence.
He uncrossed his arms.
— Circumstances have changed my mind.
A breath escaped her lips. The fight drained out of her, replaced by the bitter pragmatism of the survivor.
— Deucalion can barely stand — her voice sounded resigned, — but I believe Sappho can gather allies. One or two dozen ships, perhaps more.
— I will send the decree — he said, a gleam of triumph in his eyes.
— And the ship seized in Eretria? — Her voice was cold steel. — I need to know.
A nearly imperceptible twitch at the corner of Pericles's lips was his only reaction.
— I have already told you there is no information. But if you help me with the fleet, I can call in some favors...
He turned, leaving the hollow promise hanging in the air. He left her with empty hands and the bitter taste of manipulation.
When he was gone, a dense silence settled over the garden. Roxana remained with her back to the lake, feeling Cadmus's gaze on her wounds. His silence was different; it wasn't a weapon, but a weight. It was she who broke it, her voice little more than a bitter whisper.
— He always gets what he wants.
— Not always. — Cadmus's voice came from nearby. He had approached without her noticing. — Why that ship? What's on it?
Roxana let out a dry, humorless laugh and turned to face him.
— On it? Nothing. What mattered was who was on it. — The confession hung in the air, fragile and terrible. — I was able to escape. She wasn't.
Cadmus didn't flinch. His eyes, which had seemed distant before, focused on hers with a surprising intensity. He absorbed the pain in those words.
— She who? — he asked, his voice softer now.
Roxana shook her head, swallowing the answer.
— Thank you for… before. I misjudged you. I thought you were someone who doesn't care.
— I care — he said, a murmur that seemed to hold a world of unsaid things.
They both opened their mouths at the same time and stopped, a broken echo. The air between them vibrated. Roxana felt the blood rush to her face.
— Cadmus… why were you crying that day?
He stiffened, as if the question were a physical blow. The soldier's mask fell for a second, revealing a raw pain before he recomposed himself. Before he could forge an answer, heavy, hurried steps sounded on the marble. Demosthenes appeared, already in armor, his face smudged with soot, breaking the spell. His eyes darted from one to the other, noting their proximity.
— I am leaving for Megara.
— And the situation in the agora? — Roxana asked, taking a step back.
— Fire contained. There are greater urgencies. — He pulled Cadmus aside and handed him a sealed scroll. — If you still wish to go to Thebes, there is a friend willing to receive you.
They exchanged a short, firm handshake. A soldier's farewell. Demosthenes turned to Roxana, his professional gaze gliding over the scars on her arm.
— Are you being well cared for?
She just nodded.
He was gone, a man on his way to another war.
The silence returned, heavier.
— You're going to Thebes? — Roxana asked. — Why?
Cadmus looked at the scroll, then at the lake, as if the answer lay at the bottom of the dark water. A light laugh, a sound that didn't reach his eyes, escaped his lips. He opened his arms in a gesture of helplessness and resignation. Even he didn't know the answer.
Then, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone, her fingers clutching a scroll she had yet to write. On the lake, the water's surface, once stirred by him, was now smooth as a dark mirror, guarding everyone's secrets.