Eretria smelled of fear. Cadmus felt it as soon as he passed through the gates, a sour odor beneath the sea spray that was different from the honest smell of battle. It was the smell of rot. He presented the safe-conduct to the guard.
— A Spartan with Athens's blessing — the man spat, but let him pass. — The gods must have gone mad.
The city was a wounded animal pretending to be healthy. Cadmus moved through the streets, his senses on high alert, assessing the angles, the exits, the tense posture of the merchants. He was a wolf in a sheep pen preparing for the slaughter. For a full day, he wandered, a ghost with a cracked helmet. He heard whispers about Lycus, the port captain, and about "a flower from Lesbos with thorns." The trail was getting warm.
At dusk, in an alley near the fish market, a voice hissed.
— Are you lost, Spartan?
Cadmus turned, his hand on his gladius.
Leaning against a wall was an old woman wrapped in rags. But her eyes… they were a brilliant, ageless gold. And they did not blink. The air around her suddenly fell silent, the noise of the city distant. She was not human.
— I'm looking for someone — Cadmus said, his body tense.
— Everyone is — she hissed, an unnatural smile tearing across her face. — You seek a broken song. She seeks a ghost. And you are both sought by men who fear the light. The flower you seek has stung the local vipers, and now they prepare to strike. Look for the inn with the sign of the broken trident. The game is more fun when both players are on the board.
In the blink of an eye, she dissolved into the shadow of the wall. Cadmus stared at the empty space, the smell of ozone and discord hanging in the air.
He found the inn. The tapestry fluttered in the midst of the imminent storm. The front door was a trap. He circled the building, moving through the shadows. His agoge discipline took control. He observed. A wooden balcony on the second floor, over the alley. An unlocked window. Silent as death, he scaled the wall, his fingers finding purchase in the cracks of the stone.
He entered the empty room. There was a map of Eretria on the table, with the names of oligarchs crossed out in charcoal. The room's door opened to a corridor. The third door on the left. He felt it. He moved forward, his breath controlled, his feet making no sound. As his hand touched the latch, the door burst open.
He reacted on pure instinct. His body spun into the blow, not away from it, at the exact moment a blade sliced the air where his neck had been. Roxana was there, dagger in hand, her eyes burning with a wild fury he recognized from the agora. She was pale, with dark circles under her eyes, but her posture was that of an eagle protecting its nest. Behind her, Cadmus glimpsed two other men drawing their swords.
— You — she hissed.
— Me — he answered, slowly raising his empty hands. — I came alone.
She did not lower the dagger.
— How did you find us?
The "us" did not go unnoticed by him.
— An old woman in the market.
Roxana narrowed her eyes.
— There is no old woman in the market who knows about this. Are you a spy?
— I am no one's spy — he said, his voice firm. — Something told me to come. And, if you recall, it was you who told me to let the dead rest.
The mention of her own phrase made the tip of her dagger waver for a split second. It was something too personal to be a fabricated lie. She glanced at the men behind her and made an imperceptible gesture with her head. They relaxed, but did not sheathe their weapons.
— Get in — she said, finally, stepping back. Her voice was that of a commander assessing an unpredictable weapon. — And close the door.
He entered the main room. The smell was of wine, sweat, and strategy. Maps spread out, lists of names, weapons being cleaned. She was in the middle of a secret war. He closed the door. The sound of the latch clicking shut sounded terribly final. They were together again, trapped in a hostile city, with a ghost between them and, outside that room, the vipers and the serpents beginning to tighten their circle.