"DON'T STARE TOO closely into the mist," Tryphena chides from the helm, watching as Tundareos and his sister peer into the heavy fog, "last time you almost drove us into the rocks chasing sirens." Lesya smiles, looking over her shoulder at the dark-skinned lieutenant as she helps man the rudder. For a brief moment, the lingering grey parts, allowing a glimpse of the Attikan countryside —patches of ash and toppled stone, yet the crimson banners of Sparta are nowhere to be seen.
A short while later, Tryphena calls to the crew, and the trireme jolts before falling still. The cool fog parts again, revealing the stone towers and wharf of Piraeus —the Ippalkimon docks near the Adrestia, tying off the mooring lines. The port is deserted in comparison to what it had been before. There are no bustling traders or hurrying slaves, nor sound —bar the sad tolling of a distant bell.
Lesya and Tundareos pace down the gangplank, joining Kassandra and Herodotus in surveying the desolation. Wagons sit parked as though abandoned in haste. Some on their sides with the contents spilled and pillaged. It takes a moment for the smell to sink it, an insidious and potent stench of decay. The gods have forsaken Athens, Lesya thinks as she looks up at the Temple of Asklepius.
The few sentries posted around the harbor wear rags over their mouths and noses. "Move along!" One of them shouts, gesturing toward the promenade running inside the enclosing sleeve of the walls protecting the road connecting Piraeus and Athens.
"We speak to Aspasia and Perikles and then we leave," Kassandra announces looking between the historian and Lesya —her brother standing at her side— before they set off on the promenade and through the grey mist. The path is different from the one they had taken nigh a year ago. The drone of flies, weeping, and plaintive chants fill the air.
Bulky shapes line the roadsides, Lesya guesses they are shanty huts of refugees, but ahead the fog breaks, and bile rises in her throat. The ramshackle shelters are long gone, in their place are serried piles of dead as far as any of them could see —thousands of corpses.
Some are soldiers, most are not. She stops, staring into the heap of cadavers —eyes shriveled or pecked out by crows, jaws lolling; skin broken and partly rotted or riddled with angry sores. Lesya has dealt out her fair share of death, leaving mangled corpses across Hellas, but nothing can compare to this —a dangling limbs, clumps of hair, dripping pus, blood, and seeping excrement. No wonder the Spartans abandoned the siege. Too many people cramped within the walls had cleared the way for the pestilence to rise and ravish the denizens and those fleeing to safety from the countryside.
The path of death does not diminish as they near the agora —the stench of burning flesh and hair is heavy in the air, as is dark smoke. Lesya watches as men and women shuffle past with cloths on their faces, bringing fresh dead to add to the piles —one of them drops the body of a young girl and staggers away, sobbing.
A troop of hoplites march by, pushing the sick aside. "Kleon," a woman starts, straightening after kneeling next to a heaping pile of dead. "He seeks to use this plague like a lever, to make the acropolis hill his own. He's bought the loyalty of citizen soldiers and has a demigod on his side." She coughs, the rattling sound muffled by a cloth, and stumbles away. Lesya's stomach drops, Deimos is still here.
"I'm going to find mater," Tundareos announces, doing well to hide his fear, though Lesya can still see it —one in three Athenians rests among the dead. Kassandra and Herodotus move along toward Perikles' villa. After a moment's pause, Lesya turns to follow her brother. She trails a step behind him, eyes downcast as she remembers what happened the last time she was here. More bodies line the streets. Some finely clothed and others stripped of their silk robes and jewels. Lesya's hands clench into fists. One in three, her mind echoes —she will not give herself false hope.
Tundareos stops before the mosaic path and looks up at the pale stone —he was still a boy when he ran away in search of his sister. Now, though, he clasps onto her shoulder, smiling. It may have taken half his life, but he is returning home having found her. Mater will be proud, he thinks, anticipation and hope swelling within him. Lesya cannot return his smile in good faith.
"Mater!" He calls, passing through the andron. Silence answers. Gathered in the courtyard are hushed voices, surrounding a corpse swaddled in linen. They are too late. Among those gathered is Hippokrates. Tundareos surges forward, pushing through the acolytes, and kneels at Kalanthe's side, shoulders shaking.
Lesya stops, staring at what she had known in her gut to be true. Hippokrates approaches her, resting his hand upon Lesya's shoulders. The plague spared neither rich nor poor and Kalanthe had fallen into hard times since the death of her thesmothetai husband. Guilt twists in her stomach. She is not sorry for killing Leandros —would do it again given the chance— but a piece of her wonders, if her mother would have fallen to the sickness, had Leandros lived. "I'm sorry," the physician confesses —both for the death of their mother and the desecration that must follow in an attempt to spare others. There will be no burial for Kalanthe, only a pyre or a nameless pit.
The acolytes lift Kalanthe's corpse, carrying her from the villa for a final time. Tundareos moves back to his sister's side —watching the dark-robed figures disappear into the grey haze. He wipes the tears from his eyes and looks around the empty villa. There are no slaves bustling, no lyres being played, no fire burning in the brazier. "Pater?" Tundareos calls and silence answers him again —he looks up as if pleading with the gods, lost.
Lesya's blood runs cold, heart dropping to the pits of her stomach. She hadn't told him Leandros, the man who sheltered them as children, was killed by her hand. There will be no more hiding after today. "Tundareos–" she rakes a hand through her copper hair, pacing around the courtyard "–I killed him," she tells him, unable to mask the small shred of pride in her tone.
"What?" He asks —the weight of Lesya's words not sinking in or either he does not wish to believe his sister had murdered their father.
"He was a hateful man who sacrificed me to the Cult, Tundareos!" Lesya shouts, voice trembling and laurel eyes burning with hatred. Everything ill that had befallen her in life was his fault. It was because of Leandros of Athens that her humanity and identity had been stripped away, leaving behind a hollow shell of a once lively girl. "It's because of him I'm a monster!" It was nigh impossible to sleep with memories haunting her and no matter how much she scrubbed her hands, Lesya could still see the blood of innocent on them. There was no other way to describe what she and Deimos had become at the hands of Chrysis and the Cult of Kosmos.
Tundareos' face twists in ire and resentment. Leandros had not been a kind man, but he had loved his sons above all else and that love had been reciprocated. His hands turn to fists at his side. Perhaps you truly are the monster they say you are, sister. He swallows the thought, but cannot contain the mix of rage and grief. "He was my father!" He roars —spittle flying in the outburst.
"I cannot change what I have done, brother," Lesya starts, meeting his cold and clear gaze, "and even if I could, I would not bring him back." Leandros —son of Kalliades— deserved to rot in the depths Tartarus for the pain he caused her.
Between his mother's death at the hands of the pestilence and his father's ruin at the hands of his sister, Tundareos cannot stomach the thought of looking at Lesya again. He turns his cheek to her and draws in a heavy breath. "Sister," he says, voice suddenly hoarse, "go." Lesya flees, wiping away tears, and travels down the street leading to Perikles' home at the base of the Acropolis.
No guards are posted though Aspasia pales, her back going rigid upon seeing Lesya enter the villa. Enyo always brings death and destruction in her wake. The champion has never seen her face without a weeping ivory mask, but her voice is unmistakable —the Ghost of Kosmos. "Leave us," Aspasia tells Sokrates and the others taking shelter in a calm, commanding voice. They leave in silence, dispersing into several rooms with lowered heads.
"You fucking snake," she hisses, closing the distance between them in three strides and seizing the hetaera by the neck. Fear flashes in Aspasia's amber eyes —there is no one here who can save her should the disgraced champion choose to act. Lesya squeezes harder.
"She's different!" Aspasia gasps, speaking of Kassandra as her hands wrap around Lesya's wrist. "Not like Deimos," she pauses, straining for breath, "or you." Lesya's face contorts, her grip tightening for a second more before she lets the hetaera go with a shove —sending her to the ground. Her hand goes to her neck, rubbing the tender flesh. Aspasia looks up at the weapon she helped create, a weapon that could still be put to use. "See me safely to the Parthenon," she requests, but Lesya just laughs.
"You trust me not to hand you over to the mob?" Kleon stirs the mobs to riots —many of them want to see Perikles' head mounted above the city gates for his inaction against Sparta. Blaming him for the rise of this pestilence that had claimed both young and old alike. It would be easy to give Aspasia to the mob and let them dispose of her. The Ghost of Kosmos dead at the hands of the oppressed, it does not sound like a bad thing to Lesya.
Her amber eyes narrow. "I trust you not to betray Kassandra," she says, rising to her feet. Lesya swallows, after potentially losing her brother, she is not willing to risk the loss of a friend for vengeance.
THE EAGLE BEARER joins them on the steps of the great temple, tears streaking her face. Phoibe. It is all cut short by a ragged cry from behind the great wooden doors. Kassandra and Leysa push them open just as Deimos sinks to a crouch and wraps a mighty arm around Perikles' neck.
He looks up, meeting the eyes of his sister, Aspasia, Hippokrates, Sokrates, and Lesya. "I'm going to destroy everything you ever created," he whispers in Perikles' ear, placing his blade edge on the Athenian general's neck. Deimos' arm jerks. Aspasia cries out and lurches forward, stopped by Sokrates. The Eagle Bearer looks to the side grimacing as blood spouts and soaks Perikles' robes —his wan body turning grey in a trice. Lesya's gaze burns into him with all the grief of the day rising in her gut. Deimos releases the corpse and stands, his white-and-gold armor streaked with blood. "Stay out of my way," he hisses, flicking off the blood dripping from his sword.
The handful of masked men accompanying him advance, but Lesya slips away to pursue Deimos, confident Kassandra would be able to dispatch the remaining guards with ease. He is halfway down the marble steps of the Acropolis Sanctuary —armor glinting in the moonrise. "Deimos!" She shouts and his shoulders tense. "Stop!" Now her voice is baleful.
He turns, unsheathing the Damoklean sword and levels it toward Lesya as she nears him with her own daggers drawn. "You need to stay out of my way, too," he growls. She ignores him —knocking him back with a powerful kick. He has to be stopped. Lesya spins out of his advance but does not react quickly enough to block his elbow from colliding with her jaw. She spits blood and drags the back of her hand across her busted lip.
"You've gotten slow," he remarks, coming for her again. He swings his sword and the tip streaks down her shoulder and lower back, slashing open her leathers and tearing through her tricep —her side and arm suddenly hot with blood. She cries out and staggers backward, but levels her blades again, knowing she has endured worse pains than this. Deimos clenches his jaw as he eyes the blood sluicing down her leg. "Don't do this," he rasps —if they cross blades again, he might not be able to stop.
She steps forward again, jabbing the point of her blade at his thigh and narrowly missing. He lashes his blade in a flurry of quick swipes and it is all she can do to parry them. There's a moment's opening and she sees a weak point at his knee and calf. Lesya stabs out, but like a viper's tongue, he strikes downward, blocking the cut, and flicks his blade up, slicing across her face. Blood and sweat sting her eyes —her strength ebbs away.
The blades in her hands clatter against the stone and then she is falling. The pale stone around them is painted with splotches of bright red. He watches, aghast this has been his own doing. "No," Deimos utters. Sheathing his sword, he kneels and scoops her into his arms. She whimpers. "Lesya," he breathes, stroking over the bloody cut at her hairline —he hadn't meant for it to go so far. Her eyes are wide, staring up at him but unfocused.
He takes her to Hermippos' residence —the air is thick with burning herbs and sweet incense to mask the scent of death. Deimos threatens to cut out the Cultist's tongue if he speaks to anyone about this night. Hermippos has always been cowardly and Deimos uses the man's fear to his advantage. Slaves scuttle in and out of the bedchamber, bringing water, rags, and a fresh poultice.
Deimos tends to her with shaking hands, his heart heavy and guilt-ridden. You kill Perikles or we kill her, Kleon's words echo in his mind. It is your choice, Deimos. It had not been a hard choice. Sitting back on his haunches, Deimos runs his hands down his face and is startled to feel the dampness on his cheeks. He waits at her side almost until the morning light.
"Enyo." That is not her name, but Lesya responds out of instinct. A pair of tawny-gold eyes meet her own. Deimos. His face is a mixture of troubled emotions. Pain. Guilt. Anger. Two calloused hands settle on her sides —helping her sit. Fresh tears spring up in her eyes at the burning pain in her back and side. She looks around the dimly lit bedchamber, finding her bloody armor and exomis piled in a corner, and stained rags are strewn over the floor near a washbasin with red-tinged water. It is a familiar situation. One she and Deimos have been in too often.
Deimos pulls his hands back, taking in her scars and injuries as though he has just remembered it is his hand that harmed her. "Where am I?" Lesya asks, raising her hand, fingertips ghosting over the scab cutting through across her brow up into her hairline.
"Athens still," he answers. An ember catches flame and burns in his dark eyes. "I told you to stay out of my way." If she would have just listened to him, all of this could have been avoided. He looks down at his hands, numb. He had hurt her.
"You know I can't," she mutters, reaching for the small tie holding stained white pteruges to his gold-and-white cuirass. Deimos does not object. Instead, he pulls free the knots, ripping the breastplate from his chest and the belt from his waist. Lesya takes his face in her hands, pulling him toward her until his rough lips find hers —hands slipping down his sides. He eases her back down on the feather-stuffed mattress, never breaking the kiss.
Warmth blossoms in Lesya's chest, sparks igniting when he parts her lips with his tongue. She finds an uneven brand at the base of his ribcage and sighs into his mouth —it had not been there that night in Korinth. "Deimos," Lesya breathes, her heart aching to know they will have to part ways again. He braces his weight on his forearms, cupping her cheek as he meets her laurel gaze —something about how she looks at him now, after everything, makes his heart ache too. They were each half of the other's soul as the poets would say.
No one could escape their fate and Lesya and Deimos' were always meant to be entwined.