Eretria received Roxana with a false smile and suspicious glances. The city was a powder keg, and she could smell the sulfur in the air. In the squares, wealthy oligarchs spoke of "peace and pragmatism" with Sparta, their voices too loud, their ease forced. In the alleys, democrats loyal to Athens whispered, their bodies bent under the weight of conspiracy.
Roxana did not present herself to the city council. She found a modest inn, traded her robes for a merchant's cloak, and began to listen to the city's music. She spent two days absorbing the venom, her keen sensibility detecting the cracks in the facade, the dissonance between words and glances.
On the third day, she felt ready. With the diplomatic seal of Athens in hand, she went to the port captain, a man named Lycus.
— I am seeking information about a Macedonian trireme, captured several moons ago — she said, her voice calm.
Lycus sweated.
— A pirate vessel, actually. It was dismantled. The crew... scattered.
— Scattered where? The ship's manifest, please — Roxana insisted, invading his space.
The seal of Athens was irrefutable. He led her to a dusty room that smelled of old papyrus and lies. The manifest was there, but the handwriting was too clean, the cargo too generic. And the crew list... the names were common, until one of them stole the air from her lungs.
Serylda.
The world narrowed to that single word. For an instant, the smell of dust vanished, replaced by the scent of salt and smoke from Amphipolis. The diplomat in her mind screamed to maintain her composure. But the sister, a creature of cold caves and hunger, clawed at the walls of her soul. A sharp pain behind her eyes. She blinked, forcing the world to return. It was the voice of the other, an icy middle ground, that spoke.
— Where are these people?
— As I said… sold to the mines, some of them…
— This woman — Roxana said, her finger tracing the name, her nail nearly tearing the papyrus. — Serylda. Where is she?
— I don't know. — But his eyes fled. He was lying.
That night, she felt them before she saw them. Two shadows detaching from a doorway in the alley. Her hand slid to her dagger. When they attacked, she was already moving. She ducked, feeling the air whistle over her head, spun, and drove the blade into the man's thigh. He howled, a wet, shocked sound. The second man hesitated, surprised by the ferocity of what should have been easy prey.
— Tell your master — she hissed, her blue eyes gleaming in the darkness — that the flower of Lesbos has thorns. And that if he doesn't tell me where the woman named Serylda is, I will tear this rotten city out by the roots, one traitor at a time.
The shadows retreated and vanished. Roxana stood there, panting, adrenaline singing in her blood. The conspiracy in Eretria was linked to the ship. And the ship was linked to her sister. She couldn't fight the entire city alone. Her personal mission and her political mission had just merged.
Leaving the alley behind, she followed the whispers she had heard in the preceding days to the dyers' district, where the smell of strong chemicals disguised other secrets. She found the door that had been described to her: a tapestry of an octopus hanging outside. She knocked three times, a pause, and then twice more.
The door opened a crack. A tired, suspicious face peered out.
— What do you want?
Roxana said nothing. She simply held out her hand, showing the silver insignia Pericles had given her. The owl of Athens gleamed in the faint lamplight. The man's eyes widened. The door swung fully open, revealing a back room filled with democrats gathered around a table. A silence fell. All eyes turned to her.
— My name is Roxana of Lesbos — she said, her voice resonating with a new authority. — Pericles sent me.
The night in Eretria has only just begun.