ATHENS IS LESS than a day's journey from Andros and by nightfall, the Port of Piraeus rises from the water with Athens to the east. Kassandra and the historian depart the ship, but Lesya remains, hands curled uneasily around the railing. She has not seen Athens since the night Leandros gave her up to the Cult of Kosmos —an offering of flesh. Barnabas notices the far off look in her eyes and frowns. She had her whole life before her, yet the solemn expression told the old sailor she did not expect to see much more.
"Lesya?" She looks over her shoulder at the captain, he'd just finished his routine inspection of the deck. There'd be time to allow for a few repairs before departing —the blockage in Megaris had left its mark on the hull. "You haven't been yourself since Phokis," Barnabas notes, stopping at her side. Since joining the crew, she'd always been quiet and reserved, but there was something different about her now. In truth, she hadn't been herself ever since the Eagle Bearer joined them on the Adrestia.
She's spared Barnabas the horrors of her past and the truth of her identity —she hadn't wanted the old sailor to regret his kindness. Lesya swallows the growing lump in her throat. She knew the truth would come out sooner or later. "The people Kassandra hunt–" she bites down on her lip "–I used to be one of them." Turning her back to Piraeus, Lesya crosses her arms, unable to meet the kind, withered gaze of the captain. "Barnabas, I've done terrible things."
"Come now–" he claps her on the shoulder, smiling "–you're a good person."
Guilt consumes her. She's fooled the old sailor long enough. "But I'm not," she says, voice cracking. Barnabas' smile fades when he sees the tears running down her cheeks, glistening like jewels in the moonlight. He does not understand. "I've killed so many innocent people," Lesya whispers. Good men had died on her blades, and repulsive men had risen because of them. The captain remains steadfast. "I see some of their faces at night. Pleading for their lives." I have children, please! The pleas had not been enough to stay her hand.
"I don't sleep Barnabas and when I do–" she shakes her head. Barnabas knows what happens when she sleeps —her cries wake the crew. Nightmares and memories. Lesya lifts her gaze back to the port, sweet smoke rises from the Temple of Asklepius. "Kassandra will be safer here if she is not seen with me." The Eagle Bearer needed information and powerful allies. She would not be able to acquire either of those with a champion of the Cult at her side in a city with so many corrupt leaders.
The moment of silence is deafening. Barnabas cares not of Leysa's past transgressions —all he knows is a woman who has been hurt by life and strives to be better. "You will always have a place here, Lesya," he tells her, hand still resting on her shoulder. "The Adrestia is your home." Lesya's shoulders begin shaking. The old sailor pulls her into a warm embrace —she goes stiff, this is not something Lesya is accustomed to, but it feels nice.
WITHIN A FORTNIGHT Kassandra returns to the Adrestia with the sculptor, Phidias, in tow. The Cult of Kosmos has long sought to rid Athens of Phidias —now they intend to do so under the guise of a trial. Perikles has asked the Eagle Bearer to escort his dear friend to safety outside of the city. Seriphos is where the sculptor asks to be taken. He has a friend there in the chora that may even be able to help in their quest to dismantle Kosmos.
Under a full moon, the Adrestia departs from Piraeus with Phidias aboard, so long as there are no delays, they will reach Seriphos before midday. "Kybernetes!" Barnabas calls and the oars are extended into the black waters of the Saronic Gulf, pushing the trireme out of the harbor. The oars lift from the water before delving back in with the hum of a low war drum. Merchant and war galleys form an endless come-and-go of ships from Piraeus —it's as if a war is not occurring just outside the gates of Athens.
Behind them, Piraeus begins disappearing on the horizon. A merchant's vessel approaches on the port side of the Adrestia and a glimmer of gold in the moonlight catches Lesya's attention. She darts back to where Reza stands at the rudder and scales the sternpost, eyes narrowing.
Standing at the edge of the merchant galley is a man standing tall and proud in gold-and-white armor —looking back where she is now perched. Her heart stops. Deimos. Soon the ship is too small to be discerned from the rising waves in the distance. With a twinge of melancholy in her heart, Lesya descends the sternpost and finds a place among the crew.
Phidias is loquacious and feels silence must be filled with meaningless conversation. Lesya and Kassandra both avoid the sculptor, only speaking when required or drawn into the conversation between Barnabas and Herodotos. Ikaros dives down from the night sky, perching on the misthios' arm —golden eyes judging the disgraced champion from afar. Damn that bird Lesya curses, turning away from the helm.
She climbs the rigging at the side of the ship —unable to sleep— leaning over the water to look out on the horizon. There is nothing but rippling waves and the silver reflection of the moon. A soft breeze moves her hair, gentler than a lover's touch. Aeolus is with them this night. "Get that sail down!" She shouts. The deckhands spur into motion, tugging at ropes and knots until the faded sail is unfurled and filled with the warm wind.
The Adrestia docks in the chora of Seriphos and the sculptor is immediately greeted by his friend, Theras. He looks between the Eagle Bearer and her companion, searching the deep pockets in his robes. "I've found some information on a man named Brison who's plotting Phidias's early demise–" he passes a bundle of papyrus scrolls to the misthios, some are marked with the dark wax seal of the Cult. "Hopefully, you can make something of this."
Lesya bristles at the name and the haunting memory of the Monger standing over a man with gaping eyes, pleading for his mother's safety. He was meant to kill Phidias but failed in his appointed task. Kassandra takes her pay and leave, joining the captain and historian at the helm. "Brison is already dead," Lesya announces, uncrossing her arms.
The Eagle Bearer's brows furrow.
"He's dead," she repeats —there was no way he could have survived his run-in with the Monger. Few ever did. He'd even left his mark on the Cult's champions. "Tortured and killed for his failure to kill Phidias."
"You're certain?" Kassandra asks, dark gaze still distrustful. Lesya nods.
SHE LINGERS AS the congregation of citizens spread out from the Pnyx, having a gut feeling someone is watching her. Lesya does not recognize him until he speaks —and his voice is unforgettable. Before her stands Kleon of Athens, a sage within the Cult of Kosmos and Perikles' political rival. "Enyo," he greets hands behind his back, circling her.
"I'm not a puppet anymore," she hisses, surmising he will ask something of her. If that was not his intention, then the hoplites stationed around the hill would not be standing vigilant.
Kleon holds out his hands as if to prove he is not a threat. Enyo claims to be a woman of free will, but her heart is chained to Deimos. A weakness that can easily be exploited. It's why Chrysis worked so diligently to drive love and weakness out of the champions —why Deimos could be easily manipulated at the mention of her. "Of course not." The politician's expression turns grim. "But he is." Lesya swallows. Deimos. The twitch in her lips betrays her. "I believe you'll do as I ask if it means sparing him from more pain."
"What do you want?" She snaps, fists clenching at her sides —following Kleon's gaze to the Acropolis. A testament to Perikles' devotion to the patron Goddess of Athens. How many hundreds of triremes could have been built in place of the Parthenon? he thinks.
Perikles has made Athens appear soft in the eyes of the Spartans. Soon they would mount another attack on the city walls. The city could not fall. The war could not be over so quickly —not after the Cult had meticulously pushed Hellas to the verge of chaos. "To show the Spartans outside these walls the Athenians have teeth," Kleon responds.
She snorts, derisive and mocking. He is a coward. "If that was true, you'd be the one fighting." Such impertinence would have cost her tongue had she spoken out during a gathering. Freedom has made her bolder.
Kleon is not one to fight his own battles. He bristles at the blatant slander then turns to face the disgraced champion. "Kill the commander, Nabis," he orders. "Tonight." The politician turns on heel, leaving the Pnyx with a vanguard of hoplites.
Lesya looks skyward, rage festering deep within her. She wants to scream, to cry out. There's a simpler time in her memory —she and Deimos had been on a beach with waves breaking over their feet, wrapped in one another. An opportunity to escape, to leave everything behind. We should have stayed on that beach she thinks, withdrawing one of her blades and starting toward the northern gate.
Under the moonlight, she presents the Spartan commander's sword and seal to Kleon. He does not doubt her work, for smoke still rises from the encampment, the heavy scent settling in over the city. Taking the blade, he inspects the sharp edge and balance. It is artfully crafted —a fine addition to his growing collection. Perhaps her usefulness has not run its full course. "Still follow orders so well," Kleon muses.
She lunges at the Sage, hands wrapping around his throat —squeezing. Kleon's eyes widen, fingers clawing at her wrists. "Killing me would be a mistake," he chokes, panting. Voice already too faint to call for help. Eyes wide in shock and fear.
"Really?" Lesya challenges with a grim smile and laughter. This does not feel like a mistake. It feels like justice. "Because I can think of several people who'd benefit from your death." Me, Deimos, Kassandra, the whole of Athens. He is a vile man and deserves every ounce of suffering that comes by her hand.
"He's here," Kleon gasps in a desperate attempt to save his own life, "in the city." Her grip around his neck does not loosen, but she stops squeezing —face morphing into surprise.
Deimos. Lesya drops the Sage and looks down at where he has fallen before her feet, groveling to stand with a hand rubbing at the skin of his neck. It had been Deimos on that boat. Kicking him onto his back, she presses her foot into his chest. "Where is he?" But there is no response from the Cultist, only the shuffling of armor as guards move toward the villa.