The arena was a ring of cold marble, its tiered benches worn smooth by time and countless spectators, rising in concentric circles to a vaulted ceiling like hollow eye sockets. In the highest row sat a lone figure, back straight, gaze fixed on a scroll cradled in scarred hands, half his face hidden in the pillar's shadow. He paid no heed to the echo of his own footsteps, murmuring quietly to a guard whose arms bore the scars of the whip.
At the entrance, the polemarch raised an arm, barring all but Demosthenes. The two Athenians locked eyes, tension crackling between them.
— He waits for you. Only you.
— I'm certain Pericles will wish to know why he's here, Demosthenes replied, folding his arms and nodding toward Cadmus.
— He won't see the report.
— That's not your call.
The polemarch's brow tightened, then he studied Cadmus for a long moment before shifting his gaze to the sword's pommel—immaculately polished against Cadmus's travel-worn garb.
— Very well, he said, but leave your weapons here.
His eyes flicked back to the shadowed stranger until Demosthenes urged him:
— Cadmus, the gladius…
Cadmus hesitated. The polemarch's hand hovered on the pommel. Cadmus remembered the soldiers' austere faces—We're no longer among friends, he thought. At last, with deliberate slowness, he drew his sword and laid it in a guard's hand, memorizing the man's face as though staking a claim.
As Cadmus and Demosthenes stepped forward, the polemarch added—And the dagger.
They froze. Guards crossed spears to block the way. Demosthenes spun, catching Cadmus as he drew the hidden dagger from his cloak and handed it over.
For the first time, the officer allowed a trace of a smile.
— A bluff, young Spartan. Yet you did not disappoint. He tilted the dagger, inspecting its blade. — A fine piece, though easily traced.
Cadmus remained silent as the man tested the blade's edge on his cracked thumbnail. Then the officer's brow furrowed in recognition—You did not know who I was, did you?
— No. But I know enough now, he replied, passing the dagger to the same guard with the sword. — Demosthenes, you know my stance: should anything go wrong, I hold you responsible.
The detachment clicked their heels in salute as the officer turned and marched off.
Demosthenes lowered his voice:
— What was the dagger for?
— I trust them not.
— I'd call you a fool if you did.
He guided Cadmus away from the doorway and whispered:
— I need to know everything, understand? Until we uncover what's really happening, my word is the only thing between your head and the axe.
Cadmus nodded. The guards feigned disinterest. Together, they entered the shadowed hall.
Slender rays of light pierced high slits in the walls. Their footsteps echoed as though the building itself passed judgment. At the far end, a silver-bearded man looked up, setting aside his scroll and dismissing the nearby guard.
— Demosthenes, the man greeted crisply, voice firm with the weight of past wars. — I presume this is Cadmus?
— General, Demosthenes replied, shrugging off his mud-stained cloak. — Yes, sir. This is the man from my letters—intelligent, capable, loyal. He will serve us well.
Pericles's eyes narrowed as he studied Cadmus's posture and shoulders. At last, he inclined his head.
— We shall see. Your reports commend his skill, but loyalty is not lightly granted. Tell me, Demosthenes—has he left your side since landing?
Demosthenes opened his mouth, but Cadmus spoke first:
— Yes, General. I was never his prisoner.
— Indeed, Pericles coughed in disapproval. — I do not call him conspirator. He is a traitor.
— What? Cadmus spat.
— You claim ally at Samos, yet you spy on us now? the General pressed. — A benevolent soul, or a wolf in sheep's clothing?
Cadmus stood stiff, fists clenched behind him, fingers trembling.
— Since Demosthenes revealed you, I wondered why a Spartan shadows Athens.
— Shadow? Cadmus laughed, the sound harsh in the vaulted room. — I am no spy.
— Answer my question.
— Why should I?
Pericles rose, descending the steps to stand beside a golden sun motif carved around Athena. He paused before the goddess's stone eyes.
— Very well. Pardon my presumption. Power is curious, do you see, Demosthenes? he laughed, genuine. — Spartan, what do you seek?
— What makes you think I seek anything?
— I know men like you—thirsty, hungry, restless. You cannot bear a quiet life or a woman's caress. His gaze pierced Cadmus's face.
— Lucky you.
— Do you still have nightmares?
Cadmus froze, palms warm—of blood? He glanced down; his hands were clean. Pericles watched.
— This is futile, Cadmus finally said.
— Wolves are useful. Sheep only for sacrifice. Pericles leaned close. — I know why you're here. I offer you valuable information—consider it a gift.
Cadmus sneered.
— Hear me out. The only thing I ask is your aid.
— And what might that be?
— Time will tell. Cadmus growled low. — Please, sit.
Pericles unrolled a wine-stained map across his knees.
— The situation deteriorates faster than expected. Mégara teeters on collapse; Attica remains vulnerable. Spartans press us, and our commanders are corrupt—rocks in the sea. If our border falls, Athens will be besieged.
Demosthenes folded his arms.
— What do you need?
Pericles sighed heavily.
— You must go to Mégara, organize what you can. You'll have a safe-conduct. As for the Boule's charges—he laughed, bitterly—political farce. I'll tell the magistrates your service suffices, call it redemption. They'll agree. I've bent them before. He produced a sealed scroll.
Cadmus's mind raced as he listened, the word war sending a chill down his spine.
— That is not all, Pericles added as Demosthenes turned away. — Thebes has fallen. Spartans control it.
— Who commands the garrison? Cadmus asked, voice sharper than intended.
Pericles turned, hawklike.
— Why do you ask?
Cadmus hesitated, face betraying him.
— Curiosity.
— Of course. An Agid named Anchises leads them.
Cadmus's breath caught—a name like a spear thrust.
— Anchises is Spartan to the core, Pericles continued. — They say he flays deserters himself.
Cadmus's lips pressed tight. Behind him, his nails scored crescents into his palm.
— A Spartan never forgets his roots.
Demosthenes blocked the General's gaze.
— He is no traitor.
— Indeed. And I am no Athenian, Pericles smiled, teeth yellowed. — I hear you seek Boeotia? He dangled the safe-conduct like bait. — I can grant it—on one condition: you serve Demosthenes. Not a request.
— This is not my war, Cadmus said softly, stepping toward the exit's light.
— Cadmus, Pericles called, blade-sharp. — An exiled Spartan is never trusted—by magistrates or people. Aid us quietly. And by Athena, let this not trace back to me. Sparta stains blood and smell.
Cadmus paused without reply, then strode out.
At the door waited a tall woman scented of myrrh and fresh parchment, eyes curious.
She glimpsed the chestnuts in Cadmus's fist, a corner of her mouth lifting. Then she turned back inside as though it were a tribunal.
— You block the way — he said, retrieving his blades.
The young woman took a step back, but didn't lower her gaze.
— Waiting for someone? — he asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
— I am — she replied, eyes fixed elsewhere — And you?
She disappeared into shadow, leaving only the smell of new scrolls. Cadmus smiled faintly and moved on, Pericles's words echoing in his mind.