"Holy Salamis, thou shall destroy the offspring of women, When men scatter the seed, or when they gather the harvest"
Herodotus' Histories, Book VII, chapters 138-144
Elsewhere... The sun burns on Salamis like a merciless god. The dense air of cicada screeches, a constant and piercing chorus claws at the skull. On a ridge, above a half-dug trench, a man, a researcher of legends and traces, stumbles alone.
His ankle gives way. He curses, falls. His hand strikes marble – ancient, cold, familiar.
He cuts himself, curses, but recognizes the shape, feels its strength... a cornerstone.
He drinks from a flask, sweat stings, consumes, and burns his eyes. The world before him remains dazzled by a turquoise flash. An ancient vision forms, corroded by time.
From above, as if his soul could glimpse through the mist of time, a simulacrum arises: Salamis, jewel of the Aegean. The sea below not calm; it sparkles like a polished blade. The wind carries the scent of olives, agave, and thyme, Aleppo pines, figs, and salt.
Ruins bloom like uncertain traces and imprints beneath his sweat, becoming stained with damp.
Suddenly a Temple rises near "Ampelakia," just as described by Pausanias. The stones sing ancestral paeans, hoarse voices, footsteps, moans, and ancient flutes. Kanakia, on Pyrgiakoni... "I'm sure now," he mutters as his mouth dries up, arid and tired, "here once stood a palace... not a house... a sanctuary. A temple, in the time of heroes." He coughs and his chest tears.
No, not for men – for giants, for Kings.
He kneels.
Shadows gather around him, drawn by the pulse of memory.
Whispered processions.
Ancient names chanted.
And at the center of it all, a patronymic that for time immemorial refuses burial, that still burns through the centuries, like a brand mark: Telamonian - Son of Telamon.