Chương 6: Chapter Five: The Offer of a Merchant

Cyrus screamed with ire. And somehow, inexplicably, outside the very realm of reason— Exploding within his stomach, a stream of white-hot fire ripped free from his gullet, flooding out into existence. The torrent of flames flew, before colliding directly onto Leandros's bare chest, sending the young noble flying backwards. The boy crashed into the dirt, his tunic smoking in the front, face contorted with utter shock. Cyrus heaved, and he took a step back.

Awareness snapped back into him, fear impounding upon his heart. What had he just done? Leandros shuffled up from his position on the ground, the shock giving way to primalistic fear.

"Ateas! Kill him! Kill the monster!" The Scythian slave took a hesitant step forward. But Cyrus, still filled with the intoxicating heat, bared his teeth. A small puff of black smoke curled from his nostrils. At the sight, Ateas stiffened, muttering something under his breath. Some foreign, strange word. Something like Tabsi, or perhaps Tapati. Cyrus couldn't be certain. But his attention was soon ripped away as the second slave betrayed no such hesitation.

Plunging his hand beneath his cloak, he swiftly drew a machaira, brandishing the curved, single-edged blade, and pounced. He obliterated the distance between them, his intent of murder plain on his weathered face. Cyrus, caught by surprise, couldn't react in time. His battered body was simply too slow, the two days of beatings having spent his physical strength. He threw an arm up desperately, but he already knew it was a useless attempt. What use would bone be against the steel?

The sword would just cut and smash through. What a worthless way to die, he thought, bitter self-mockery infecting his mind.

"Enough!" Just before the machaira could maul into Cyrus's neck, a wiry hand gripped his left shoulder and yanked him back with startling force. And the blade, flying past, missed him the barest of inches, by the breadth of a very hair strand. Tumbling into the dirt, Cyrus lost control of all his senses. His world whirled, until he came to a stop on his back. Gasping, old and new pain having been jolted into his body, all he could was lie there for a long moment, unable to make sense of what had just happened.

That was, until a shadow fell over him. And through bleary eyes, a dizzy mind, Cyrus made out the shape of someone who he had never expected to see again. Nicomedes. The old man stood over him, positioned between Cyrus and the slave. The slave snarled.

"What are you doing, old fool? Do you wish for death that badly?" Nicomedes sneered back with equal ferocity.

"And you dare raise a weapon against me, your elder? Where is your respect?" The slave roared, brandishing his machaira. He swung, youthful energy pounding through his muscles, the sword swinging down in an arc meant to slice Nicomedes apart. Cyrus's eyes widened. He was just meaning to open his mouth in a warning—or perhaps a cry as the old man was struck down, but he had no time to do either. For Nicomedes was not there anymore. The old man danced sideways, his movements as fluid and effortless as water.

There was no wasted motion, no visible strain. The blade passed through empty air where his body had been just a second before. Before the slave could even begin to recover, Nicomedes was already in front of him, extending a single finger and tapping it lightly on the center of the man's chest. The crisp fragrance of crushed olives packed the air, bizarre and completely out of place amidst the coppery stench of blood and the haze of choking dust.

The bodyguard exploded backwards, flying through the air for several seconds before slamming into the dirt. He lay there motionless, a thin curl of smoke rising from the center of his chest where Nicomedes's finger had struck him. Still lying on the dirt, all Cyrus could do was stare. His mind failed to conceive what his eyes had just witnessed. What? Had an old man just thrown a perfectly healthy, muscled bodyguard through the air?

Cyurs turned towards Nicomedes, finding the old man staring at Leandros, Darius, and Ateas with raised brows. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

"Well? Are you going to run?" Leandros didn't need to be told twice. Jerking free from his horrified stupor, the young noble stumbled backward, scrambling frantically away from the clearing. Ateas and Darius were right on his heels, sprinting down the dirt road. Cyrus watched them go, his heart thrashing against his ribcage. He swallowed the lump in his throat and turned his eyes back to the old man.

"How..." Cyrus whispered, pushing himself onto his elbows.

"How did you do that…" But the question died in his throat as Nicomedes rounded on him instantly, the casual demeanor the old man had shown the slave vanishing. He stared at Cyrus intensely, towering over the boy.

"Never mind what I did, boy," Nicomedes demanded.

"Look at you, with smoke coming out of your very lips. Tell me, how did you summon that fire?" Cyrus shrank back from the old man's edged gaze, his mind spinning as he desperately tried to make his mouth work.

"I... I don't..." he stammered, his hands clawing weakly into the dirt.

"By the gods, I have no clue! It just…" Nicomedes stared at him. Then he began howling at the sky.

"Unbelievable," the old man wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. He gave a wicked grin, looking down at Cyrus with eyes manically gleaming.

"To think that I would stumble across a spark like you here, of all places." He shook a fist at the sky.

"See, boy, see? This is how the Fates treat us! Weaving such a twisted tapestry, one can only imagine what is going on through their maniacal minds!" Cyrus shook his head, far too exhausted to even form a proper thought.

"What are you talking about? Who are you? What—" Nicomedes guffawed.

"Don't worry about that, my boy." Before Cyrus could say anything more, the old man scooped him up under one arm—a feat of strength that made no sense—and began marching up the dirt road without even sparing a single glance at the other slave still smoldering in the dirt.

"What are you doing?" Cyrus tried to protest, but his voice came out as a thin whimper.

"To meet your parents, of course." Nicomedes announced.

"What? No! What do you mean—" Cyrus's stomach plummeted to the ground. Nicomedes chuckled, patting Cyrus's back.

"Relax. I'm about to make them an offer that would make them fools if they refused." By the time they reached the bakery—Cyrus having no clue how Nicomedes even knew where his house was, and more importantly, who his family was—his mother had stepped outside, drawn out by the sight of two figures walking up to their home in such fashion. Her eyes widened as she recognized Cyrus's battered body." Paidi mou!"

she shouted as she rushed forward, before halting, staring at the stranger carrying her son with blatant caution.

"Who are you? What have you done to him?" Nicomedes shook his head, setting Cyrus down onto the ground in a gentle manner.

"I have done your son no harm, good woman. I am but a simple merchant." His mother's eyes only narrowed further.

"And what does a merchant have to do with him?" Nicomedes bowed his head.

"Your son saved my life. I was traveling through Boeotia, on my way to Thebes. I met Cyrus here, who after seeing an old man traveling by his lonesome on the road without any sort of company, offered to guide me safely through this unfamiliar area." He shook his head gravely.

"Still, the bandits found us regardless. Your son fought bravely to protect an old fool's coin purse, though he paid for it dearly, as I imagine you already know." His father stepped up to his mother's side, his eyes widening as they spotted the fresh bruising blooming across Cyrus's skin.

"What happened?" Nicomedes recounted the story for Cyrus's father, then continued.

"Today, the same wretches returned. I do not know why, but they seem to be targeting me. I daresay your son would not be standing here at all, had he not kept his wits about him." Cyrus, from his position on the ground, could only stare with complete shock at the old man's deliverance of such lies. Even though he knew the truth, he truly found himself almost wanting to believe the story. And just like him, his parents were also steadily falling under the spell.

Though his mother's suspicions hadn't melted, her expression had softened considerably. Besides her, his father had also eased his posture.

"But why does this concern you, merchant?" his father asked cautiously.

"Why come to our door at all, rather than simply going about your business?" Nicomedes placed an approving hand on Cyrus's head.

"In all my years of travel, I have rarely met a boy so quick-witted under pressure." He shook his head.

"Such qualities are wasted grinding grain, if you'll forgive my bluntness. And because I find myself in need of an apprentice, I would like to offer your son the position." His father's brow furrowed.

"What would this apprenticeship entail? And for how long would you take him from us?"

"A few years to start," Nicomedes said, handing over a pouch of coins.

"Perhaps longer, if I find him more useful." His father shook the pouch, weighing it in his hand.

"A couple of years is a long while," his mother whispered.

"It is," Nicomedes agreed.

"But I promise you, good woman, your son will return to you far greater than he left. Besides, he is old enough, is he not? He appears to be of a fine age to be an apprentice. Almost too old, in fact, making me wonder why no other old crows have picked him up yet." His father let out a long breath, glancing towards his mother.

"It is true that Cyrus is in the ideal stage for one." Then, turning back, he extended his free hand toward Nicomedes.

"Very well. You have my word, merchant, and my thanks for what you've done for him already." Nicomedes clasped it firmly.

"And you have mine."

"When would he leave?" his mother asked, worry etched on her features.

"Tonight," Nicomedes said bluntly. Both parents stared at him.

"Tonight?" his father repeated, incredulous.

"Surely he can rest and say his goodbyes—" Nicomedes spoke, his tone grave.

"I wish he could, but as I recounted, the bandits are targeting me. And they know your son is with me." He glanced toward the road.

"It is safer, for your entire family, if he is far from this village by morning." His mother's face was ashen.

"They would come here? To our home?" Nicomedes shook his head.

"I do not know, but I would rather not like to find out." Cyrus watched. He wanted to speak up, but what would he even say in such a situation? His parents exchanged a glance, and without a conversing of words, both nodded.

"Quickly, go gather what you need," his father told Cyrus.