In the days that followed, Roxana became Pericles's shadow in the Areopagus. She watched from a cold marble bench as he used her presence—the foreigner, the survivor of the riot—as a silent weapon, a mute testament to the "disorder" he promised to control. And then, off the stage, she saw him not lift a finger to prevent the sentences. She understood the game. She was a useful pawn, and she hated him for it.
The response from Lesbos arrived: three dozen ships. Satisfied, Pericles granted her access to the missives from Eretria. A chill ran down Roxana's spine as she observed his calm while reading about the city's imminent betrayal. It was the calm of a player who had already moved his pieces.
That night, he summoned her. The office was dark, the air heavy with the smell of wine and secrets.
— Sit — the shadow said. Pericles continued to read. — I believe you have understood the situation in Eretria. I need your help one last time…
— Pericles. — Her voice cut through his, sharp as glass. — At what point does this relationship cease to be one-sided? I testified in your favor, I mobilized your ships, and you still haven't fulfilled your part. Where is the ship? What is happening in Eretria?
He let out a dry laugh.
— You are looking for the truth in the wrong place, girl.
— Do not call me girl. — She stood up, her fury breaking her composure. — Tell me the truth. Or I will leave this house and send your fleet to the bottom of the Aegean.
This time, he didn't laugh. The silence stretched. Then, he looked up.
— I knew your father, Arcesius. In Amphipolis.
Her fury wavered, caught off guard by the low, personal blow.
— How?
— Your father was one of the first to volunteer. A foreigner with a skill for woodwork that seemed like magic. Aspasia, my late wife, was a friend of Sappho's. It was we who secured your place in Lesbos after the tragedy. We care about you, Roxana. And you repay us with threats?
The words were a sweet poison. The room spun.
Cave. Cold. Hunger. Her sister's voice. "You can eat. I'll look for fruit." Darkness. Pain in her hair. "Little thief! I'll have your right hand for this!" The slam of a cell door…
She woke up on the floor. The cold marble against her cheek. The smell of melted wax. And Pericles's face, very close, his concern appearing almost genuine.
— Roxana?
She scrambled back, leaping to her feet, her body trembling. The other one took the reins, her voice icy.
— Where were we?
— But you…
— I AM FINE, PERICLES! — she shouted, her voice echoing.
He stepped back.
— You say you want to help me… how?
— I want you to go to Eretria. The ships you've secured… will gather there.
— Why Eretria?
— Because that is where you summoned them. — He admitted it without a shred of remorse. — I did it. In your name. A neutral pretext was necessary to assemble the fleet away from the eyes of my rivals. Your plea for help was the perfect pretext.
The man's audacity stole her breath.
— Then the traitors… the pirates…
— They aren't mere pirates, Roxana. They are hundreds. Financed by the Persian satrap, Tissaphernes. He is the one helping Sparta. — He paused, letting the weight of the revelation settle. — That is why our fleet was destroyed in Syracuse. The sea… did not behave as it should. The Persians have their own arts.
— Then why didn't you send Demosthenes? Why me?
A heavy sigh escaped Pericles, the first sign of genuine weariness.
— Because I need a diplomat, not a general who would cause a bloodbath. Demosthenes… was a necessary sacrifice. I sent him to Megara to die with honor and, with that, appease the assembly that was baying for blood after Syracuse. But you… you can enter Eretria and remove the rotten fruit from within, without starting a civil war.
He held out his hands. In one, a sealed scroll. In the other, a silver insignia with the owl of Athens.
— I know the ship interests you. With this safe-conduct pass and this seal, you will have access to everything you need when you arrive. This is my offer. The choice is yours.