Chương 23: Chapter Twenty Two: The City of Seven Gates

Cyrus splashed the icy water of the small forest creek against his skin. Methodically, he scrubbed off the few days worth of matted blood, dried mud, and grime that completely caked his limbs. The filth slid off of him, turning the crisp water beneath him murky red. Though he grimaced as the freezing temperature aggravated his wounds, he actually welcomed the stinging sensation. It only served to remind him of his victory against the boar, and the warmth of his buzzing core enlivened it even more.

There was only one problem. He had no clothes. Cyrus sighed. He had thrown away both his tunic and sandals when hunting down the hare. And he couldn't exactly step back into civilization completely bare. Aithon fluttered down from where he had been resting in the crook of a pine tree branch.

"A simple predicament," the cicada buzzed dismissively.

"Just walk into the nearest village at dusk and steal yourself a cloak. Or better yet, strip a traveler on the road. What does it matter to you?" Cyrus shook his mane, sending droplets of water flying off. He glared up at the airborne bug.

"No."

"And why not?" Aithon clicked cynically.

"Common sense, is it not?" Cyrus muttered, wringing out his hair.

"My morals will not allow stealing from some poor farmer who worked hard to clothe his family." Aithon chuckled.

"A quite nice burst of civic virtue. Very well. However, if you refuse to steal, what will you do?" Cyrus nodded down at the thick hide he had stripped off of the boar, tossing his sharp stone shard into the air and catching it. Aithon clicked his mandibles.

"A boar pelt, then. Are you sure you will be able to fashion clothes with it?"

"Hopefully," Cyrus muttered, heading over to the thick blanket of fur and bits of skin.

"Very well then, use your pelt," Aithon chirped. Then he paused.

"I just realized, my child. You never told me what city your wretched enemies reside in." Cyrus glanced over at the iridescent bug.

"Where do you think?" he replied, pulling the stiff hide onto his lap.

"The city of seven gates." ❦ ❦ ❦ The city-state of Thebes was loud as it was magnificent, an enormous structure of baked bricks and towering stone, constructed even more imposing against the background of the flat, rolling plains. Cyrus stood, surrounded for the first time in a while by human noise. He was not even in the city yet, standing just outside of the gates, and already the citizens that crowded past him resembled that of a powerful ocean tide. So much life. So much color.

Handsome youths and wealthy nobles strode past in finely pleated chitons dyed in rich shades of saffron and deep indigo. Cyrus let his gaze linger on the beautiful, elegant women that walked past in pairs, their soft linen garments drifting softly behind them. Cyrus had walked these streets a few times before, with his father. But those visits had been brief, and they had never ventured deep into the heart of the city Father… Cyrus grimaced.

He had wished to visit him soon as they had left the wilds, but it would not be right. How dare he show his face in front of any of his blood—even to check their well-being—without having righted his wrong? And so, he had sworn that he would only rejoin with his father after having rescued his mother and sister. Cyrus looked down at his crude, makeshift clothes. He was practically half-naked, and had only been let through the gates by the guards due his young age making him appear completely harmless.

"Well, well," Aithon murmured inside Cyrus's head.

"Your targets are somewhere inside here. How do you plan to sniff them out?"

"Quite a good question," Cyrus muttered back. He kept his head down, so as to not attract attention to himself.

"Maybe I should start by asking around. Someone must know where the prominent houses are." Aithon sighed.

"Ask around?" the spirit scolded.

"And what do you suppose happens when a half-naked boy starts inquiring about prominent noble families?" Cyrus clamped his lips shut, the refute stinging harshly. But Aithon's logic was right.

"Then what else is there?" Cyrus shot back.

"I don't know the city well enough to—""That is precisely it," Aithon interrupted.

"You do not know the city enough. Therefore, let us go learn it." Cyrus frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Look to your left," Aithon said, a hint of dry amusement leaking into his tone. Cyrus followed the direction.

"Is your father not a baker, my child?" Cyrus raised an eyebrow. Near him, sat a small bakery. Warm smoke puffed out of a crude hole cut into the roof, carrying out the familiar scent of cooking bread—smells that Cyrus had savored all of his life.

"Playing to my skills, is it?" Cyrus murmured.

"Indeed," Aithon said.

"You are penniless in skill everywhere in this city except one place. So let us use it." Cyrus scowled.

"However, I am not here to bake bread, Aithon. I am here to find Leandros and rescue my mother and sister." Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

"And you will," the voice in his head said,"once you have eyes and ears all around the city. Gossip is your friend, my child." Cyrus's scowl deepened. How much longer would he have to wait? It had already been almost a week since his mother and sister had been kidnapped. For all he knew, they could've already been sold into slavery by now. But it was clear that he had no other options. Wiping the frustrated expression from his place, he strode into the small building.

❦ ❦ ❦ Inside, the first thought that arose within Cyrus's mind was the sheer difference of a city bakery compared to his family's small village bakery. Which his father only wielded a single hearth, this one had multiple, including brick ovens that lined the walls. Truly an extreme jolt. But the second thought Cyrus had was far from normal. Where… where is everybody? He couldn't help but frown. In a city this majestic and bustling, shouldn't there be at least a small army working to keep the people fed?

Where were the slaves, the bakers, the apprentices? But there was no one here, the room terribly sparse and empty, devoid of any sort of life. Well… except for one. A thick man, sweat ringing the tunic surrounding his armpits, with hands wrist-deep into a trough full of dough, was working away at the craft. After approaching, Cyrus found that the man's name was Philon, and that he was the owner of this bakery. The old man gave a glare after introducing himself, clearly displeased at this distraction.

"What do you want?" he muttered. He grunted.

"We don't spare bread for beggars, so don't even think about—" Cyrus raised both hands.

"I'm looking for work." Philon stared at him. Then he let out a sloppy snort, slapping his thigh.

"Huh… Work, huh? You look like you hunt for a living, boy, not bake bread." Cyrus raised a brow.

"Well, I'll have you know that my father is a baker." Philon looked at him, clearly unbelieving.

"Is he now?"

"Yeah." The old baker sighed, burly shoulders shaking with the heavy breath, before wagging his head. Reaching deep into the troughs, he pulled out a chunk of raw dough.

"Prove it then." He dumped the pile in front of Cyrus.

"Shape this." Cyrus shrugged. Then, stepping up, he gripped the sides of the squishy mixture. He began molding it carefully, making sure to layer it and dust heavily with flour. Yet, as he continued, Cyrus found that his fingers… were different. From initial glance, they were far more bulky than lithe, strengthened from his time in the wilderness. But somehow, they felt—and were—far more nimble and flexible Philon watched from the side.

Though at the start his expression was guarded, arms folded over his chest, gradually, his demeanor softened.

"Ho… so you were speaking the truth," he grunted.

"Fine. It appears that Lady Tyche is smiling upon you, boy. I shall employ you." The old baker then pointed a knobby finger.

"But you steal so much as a single obol from me, boy, and off you are to the officials!"

"Understood," Cyrus said, completely unfazed at the threat. He gave a nod, smiling as innocently as he could muster his lips to curve. He then let his lips droop into a small frown.

"But where is everybody else?" Philon's face immediately darkened.

"Damned boy," the baker muttered.

"Do you not have enough sense to not speak of such things in front of me?" Cyrus blinked, shaking his head defensively.

"I only just arrived in this city," he said.

"I fear I do not know what you are talking about." Philon let out a weary sigh, his shoulders sagging. Turning back to the trough, he sliced off another chunk of dough, getting to work on it aggressively.

"Why all of my workers are gone, huh?" Philon muttered.

"Well, that's just it, boy. They left." Cyrus cocked his head. Was this the beginning of the gossip Aithon had told him to start collecting?

"What happened?" Philon spat a glob of spittle into the ground.

"Cowardly intimidation, that's what!" He pounded the trowel beside him with a furious fist.

"Those House Polydorous bastards. Some thugs from their house cornered my best bakers and made it clear that anyone baking bread for me would find themselves sleeping with a obol under their tongue." Cyrus's mind sparked at the name. Clearly fancy, it most likely belonged to a noble house. His thoughts clung to it. Perhaps the noble family was prominent enough to be inside the very same circles where Leandros and Ktesios resided. Enlivened by the theory, Cyrus pursued more questions.

"But why would they target you?" Philon snorted bitterly.

"Why would they—? What do you think, boy?! Of course it isn't just me! Someone high up is squeezing all of us shopkeepers dry, trying to monopolize trade." Pausing in his kneading, the old man glanced up. He shook his hands, letting the fog of flour drift to the ground. His eyes narrowed, and Cyrus let out an inner sigh. It appeared that the baker had finally noticed himself running his mouth off to a random stranger. Philon leaned forward.

"Never mind what I said," he growled, before proceeding to once again jab forward a thick finger.

"You talk too much and you ask too much. Forget everything I just said, you understand?" Before Cyrus could reply back with any confirmations, the old man rattled with a sigh. Then, standing up with a wince as his legs popped, he gestured for Cyrus to follow him. Philon led him in a quick tour around the bakery, detailing the various tasks needed to be done. Until finally, he stopped at the front door, and crouched, picking up two empty hydrias and shoving them into Cyrus's arms.

"Now go get the water from the fountain. Shouldn't be hard. Just follow the other servants heading for the water as well, if you do not know where the city center is. Move!" And so, Cyrus was back onto the street, tucking each of the empty clay vessels under each arm. He quickly broke into a brisk jog, following Philon's instructions and following the other servants also heading to the fountain. Men and women occasionally glanced over at him, his boar hide clothes clearly strange, but none stopped to bother him.

"Nice work, my child," Aithon murmured, sounding entertained, though he kept his grave atmosphere.

"Quite nice information. We now know that the city seems to be filled with tension." Cyrus nodded.

"This will be good to reach my enemies."

"Perhaps," Aithon clicked, his tone thoughtful.

"Chaos is always a fertile ground for ambition, but it also invites stray blades."

"I can handle a stray blade," Cyrus muttered. Aithon chuckled.

"Do not get overconfident, my child. With your new cultivation, your physical strength may be enough to overpower at least five grown men, but even your skin is susceptible to blades."

"If the hand that wields the blade cannot reach me, then how will I be harmed?"

"No doubt that your hubris will be the end of you," the spirit scoffed.

"Though on that note, I confess that I did not expect you to take to servitude so eagerly."

"It's a job, not servitude," Cyrus shot back under his breath.

"And this is just until I get the information I need. I'm only staying here for a few days." The street was a crushing wave of bodies, but to Cyrus, it was hardly a challenge to navigate. Being a cultivator, his movements and instincts were now highly above average men. A few days ago, the crowd would have swallowed him whole. But now, he could slip under arms and baskets, weaving seamlessly through the various obstacles.

"How about we increase your speed?" Aithon intoned.

"It would be better to get the work done faster to earn Philon's approval." Cyrus grinned at the idea. He obeyed, quickening his pace— —only to slam directly into someone.