Chương 28: Chapter Twenty Seven: No Mere Hidden Vice

The first thing Cyrus saw once he stepped out of the warm and humid baths and into the cooler air of the apodyterium was the irritated face of one very cross girl. Eleni was pacing about near a stone pillar, muttering obscenities under her breath. The moment she spotted him, her lips and brows twisted into a scowl sharp enough to cut metal.

"Finally," she snapped.

"What took you so long? I'm no servant for you to just leave behind and go about relaxing there." Cyrus raised his hands defensively, offering a sheepish grin to try and blunt her temper.

"It took a bit longer than I expected. I'm sorry—""Shut it. I've been sitting here for more than an hour. I'm in no mood for excuses." Eleni tossed her hair over her shoulder with a huff.

"Just come. I'm hungry and tired." She marched towards the main street, not glancing back to see if he was even following. Cyrus caught up quickly, but kept his lips sealed, wisely choosing to remain silent than issue an apology that was certain to be met with backlash. By now, the streets had emptied considerably, the chaos he had seen in the earlier agora all but dispersed, the only remaining life on the streets being the people coming home from the baths or the drunks stumbling home.

"You're lucky that my father does not believe in eating ahead," Eleni muttered eventually. Her anger seemed to have dulled.

"Otherwise we'd both be going to bed on an empty stomach."

"I appreciate it," Cyrus said cheerfully. She huffed. Indeed, true to Eleni's word, they found Philon sitting at a table with covered bowls of lentils and barley, luckily still warm. Cyrus ate silently, much too tired and bogged down with various thoughts to strike up any sort of conversation. ❦ ❦ ❦ Cyrus found that the resting place offered to him by Philon was a stuffed pallet, covered with the musty stench of dust and grain.

Still, it was a warm comfort, and he sank into it, his limbs folding with relief onto the soft surface. However, before the heaviness in his eyes could overtake him, the voice of Aithon hurriedly jolted him back to full awareness.

"Do not dare fall asleep now, child," the spirit warned.

"Remmeber that the "scent" l placed upon the Thracian slave back at the agora will not linger forever." Cyrus's eyes snapped open and he sprang upright. He had completely forgotten! With the unsettling encounter with Evander, the subject had entirely slipped from his mind.

"Right," Cyrus whispered. He rubbed his eyes, then gave his cheeks a light slap.

"I'm awake."

"Good," Aithon murmured.

"The mark I placed on him seems to be growing every fainter. It's clear that he's quite far from us. If we want to see the residence of your enemies, we must hurry." Nodding, Cyrus swung his legs off the pallet. Crouching down in the familiar wolfish manner so as to not make any sounds, he crept forward, careful of Eleni and Philon, both of whom were sleeping in another room not too far away.

Slipping silently out of the entrance, he blinked rapidly at the bright moonlight that shone down onto the empty streets of Thebes.

"Where should I head towards?" he whispered, his eyes flitting across the span of the silent streets.

"We need to head all the way to the edge of this city," Aithon replied.

"Quite a long way away. We must hurry." Cyrus frowned.

"Running through the city at night is sure to draw attention."

"Then we will make sure you move fast," Aithon said.

"Listen carefully. We do not have time for any formal instruction or theory, so do not even bother asking what this technique is called." Cyrus nodded, enlivened by the idea of a new technique.

"Gather pneuma from your upper body and send them down into the phlebes inside your legs. Pool it directly into the soles of your feet, envisioning that it is trapped like air, just waiting to erupt." Cyrus complied, concentrating and sending a burst of the energy down. His calves began throbbing, and as he delicately poked at the tense muscles, he could feel an intense heat radiating from his flesh.

"Now," Aithon continued to instruct.

"Take a step forward. But when you do, do not push off the stone as you would normally do. Instead, envision yourself releasing that pneuma from the soles of your feet. That way, you can minimize how long your feet touch the ground by launching off each step before you have to put down your full weight. Cyrus took a deep breath, preparing himself. Then he leaned his body into motion, and set his foot forward. Pak! Cyrus was sent flying backwards, slamming hard onto the ground.

He gasped, stumbling hard and knocking his knees against the stone walls. Aithon chided.

"You must control the release better, my child. You are releasing it before your sole even touches the ground. Remember, touch, release, then glide forward." If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Cyrus sighed, but he pushed himself back up and tried again. The next five steps continued to send him to his knees, but on the sixth one, something seemed to click for him.

Just as his toes brushed the stone beneath him, he sent out a bit of pneuma, just enough to send him skimming over a large distance. Woah… Cyrus thought with wonder. Again he tried, and succeeded once more. Pretty soon, he was basically gliding over the streets at an impossible speed, riding the blasts of energy from his soles easily.

"Well done," Aithon praised.

"I thought it would take longer, but you seem to have an uncanny talent for movement techniques." Cyrus could barely constrain his whoops of elation as he sped forward, the wind tearing past his clothes. The sensation of weightlessness was intoxicating.

"Slow down," Aithon warned.

"We are drawing close." Cyrus quickly leaned his body back, letting the sudden weight cause himself to catch on the earth, pulling him to a stop. He ducked down into the dark shadows, catching his breath.

"The smell is strong here," Aithon murmured.

"The slave is just around the corner." With a thudding heart, Cyrus peeked around the wall, expecting to see the grand gates of an aristocratic estate. Finally, he would be able to find his mother and sister— But no. Instead, he found himself staring at an ancient ergasterion —an artisan workshop. It looked almost completely abandoned, the only sign of life being the single flicker of flames that illuminated the dark building. Cyrus narrowed his eyes.

He easily spotted the Thracian slave, for he was the source of the light, his broad arms carrying a lamp and a terracotta pithos in the other. Surrounding him was a retinue of heavily armed guards, their thick muscled forms strapped with thick leather armor and short swords resting at their hips. The slave heaved the jar—terribly heavy, based on his struggle—up the stone steps and disappeared into the workshop, followed by the majority of the armed men.

Three of the guards remained outside, taking up guard positions by the entrance.

"An interesting development," Aithon murmured.

"It appears that your slave—and perhaps his master—is engaging in some questionable activities. Very good. That is enough for tonight. Let us go back." Cyrus didn't move, remaining crouched. His narrowed eyes glared at the place where the Thracian slave had disappeared inside.

"My child," Aithon said.

"Listen to me. Let us go back."

"No," Cyrus whispered back. The spirit sighed.

"Do not be a fool. You are in no condition to go about this—""Be quiet. You keep telling me to wait." Cyrus scowled.

"Not this time though. I'm so close, Aithon. I can feel it." Staring at the guards clad in armor guarding the door, he could feel the pneuma rushing through his veins with turbulent heat.

"They could be right through those doors," Cyrus breathed, a predatory glint lighting his eyes.

"I'm not turning back." Tuning out Aithon's protests, he studied the doorway for a moment, then glanced at the guards surrounding it. And before he could give himself a chance to stop, he dashed forward. Using the movement technique Aithon had taught him just moments before, Cyrus launched forward, basically flying out of the shadows. The guards, startled by the sudden sound, reached for their swords almost instantly.

"What the–" one began. But they were all far too slow. Cyrus was in front of them within seconds, and continuing to ride his momentum, he slammed straight into the first man before he could even fully draw his weapon. The guard crumpled, slumping to the floor in a fully unconscious state.

"Intr—!" The second guard tried to bellow, but Cyrus silenced him quickly, slamming his heel strongly into the man's neck, sending him dropping to the ground. The third guard tried to slash forward—having managed to draw his weapon—but it was for naught, as Cyrus kicked the man's feet from under him. The guard slammed his head into the stone, his head bouncing off the ground for a few times before his body stilled. Cyrus stood over the three downed men. He was barely breathing hard.

To be honest, it had surprisingly been easy. Much easier than the boar, at least. Aithon let out a suffering sigh.

"Will you really not go back, my child?" Cyrus shook his head.

"Never." The spirit let out a huff.

"Very well, then. Continue on." Cyrus declined to answer. Instead, he nudged the ergasterion's wooden door open, letting it slide inwards with a tiny creak. Inside, the air was musty with a thick cloying scent similar to resin and tallow. Creeping forward, Cyrus found himself inside what had once probably been a floor dedicated to pottery, though now the stations remained empty and abandoned. In the center of the room, a large basin had been placed, with narrow channels on the floors opening out into it.

Cyrus grimaced. Dark stains crusted the basin's edges. Definitely blood. Continuing forward, he found rough clay lamps stationed throughout the room, alight with flickering flames. On the walls were strange symbols that he failed to recognize, though he felt that he had maybe seen some of them carved into various places within the Mount Helicon Sect. Then Cyrus heard the sound of voices—muffled, but still close.

He ducked back into the shadows, peering into the origin of the sounds, finding that they were coming from a stone stairwell that descended downwards into the dark. The Thracian slave must have gone down there, he realized.

"This really is no mere hidden vice, my child," Aithon murmured.

"Are you sure about this?" Cyrus scowled.

"I must do what I must." He creeped down the stairs, keeping his back to the wall and the shadows to his face. The voices grew louder, until he realized it was chanting. Guttural chanting, something he had heard of only in the tales of rituals that heretics committed. He soon arrived at a damp chamber shaped like a miniature amphitheater. The stone masonry had been wrapped into circular rows, sloping steeply down into a central pit.

There, a dozen candles made from tallow burned brightly, coughing smoke into the air. Cyrus's eyes widened at the scene before him. In the very center was a dark slab of unpolished marble—an altar. And abound atop of it was a man. He was gaunt and filthy, with ribs that stood out prominently from hunger, his pale skin so sickly that it appeared almost translucent. Heavy iron fetters pinned his wrists and ankles to the cold slab of rock. Looming over the captive was the Thracian slave.

Under the harsh light of the candles, Cyrus could see his broad shoulders shining with sweat. He held up the pithos, his deep voice leading the guttural chanting. Around him were the guards, their loud voices all following along. The chorus sounded like a song from the very depths of the underworld. Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, hardly able to believe what he was seeing.