Marble covered the Acropolis, off-white limestone formed wide stairways, terraces with benches, shrines to the major Olympians with statues of gods and heroes, an olive tree said to have been given by Athena herself, and a large fountain sent water through tiny channels. After decades of labor, the towering structures left visitors and locals in awe. Athenion wanted everyone to know its gratefulness for the guidance of its patron goddess, Athena the Wise.

The olive trade bankrolled the city's grand construction projects, with Athenion as the heart of its commerce. From here, tons of the tiny fruit changed hands daily, whether brined, sun-dried, crushed into oil, or transformed as a jam or paste.

Its other marvel was its navy. Its triremes carried troops or cargo between several islands, linking all parts of its empire together. Freemen rowed and sailed these ships throughout the known world. Employment was available to all except those unwilling or incapable of working.

Miltiades climbed onto a barrel to give his voice additional reach. He had rehearsed the speech for days, perfecting every word until it was etched in his mind. The allocution used clever language to convey his points with wit and charm. The plan was simple: deliver an impassioned speech about the troubles of Ekkos and the glory they would receive by removing the thing that dwelled within. Any hero within earshot would feel ashamed not to join his expedition and flock to his banner. Together, they could accomplish anything. How could Mighty Zeus not support the restoration of his once-great temple? How could Wise Athena not bless his endeavor with success? He implored her many times. She inspired the heroes from the most incredible stories. Under her watchful gaze in her holy city, he came here to build his crew and forge a legend that would be written about in books generations after they were gone.

Miltiades’ heart pounded in his chest as his feet turned to stone, locking him in place. His tongue felt like dry sand in his mouth. Thick drops of sweat formed on his brow and drifted down his cheek and nose, only to be joined by more. His speech was clear in his mind, but his mouth refused to relay any of it. Embarrassment took hold of him, freezing his lips in silence. Everyone passing judged him. They all knew he could not make public speeches and how public discourse terrified him. He’d rather die in shame. He knew he couldn’t give public speeches all along but had hoped Athena’s presence would spur him to give his speech.

From her temple, Athena gazed down, her expression unmoved.

His breath came in uneven, shallow bursts. He was panting. Loudly. Why does this barrel wobble beneath me? A fall from here could be disastrous. I have to say something. Say anything. By the gods, Miltiades speak! His lips spread, but only the swishing of his breath came out. Bringing his hands before him, he pinched his palm to center himself, but to no avail. The pain failed to ground him, drawing his focus to the barrel’s precarious tilt.

“What’s wrong?” Petrokles poked Miltiades’ shin. “Alas, poor Ekkos…”

Miltiades recognized the opening word to his speech and mouthed the words as Petrokles spoke them, but his voice refused to cooperate. His lips curled and twitched, yet his throat remained silent.

Not even a squeak.

After repeating himself to no avail, Petrokles asked, “Shall I give the speech instead?”

Miltiades nodded in short, quick movements before taking the offered hand to climb down the barrel. Once his feet returned to the ground again, his voice returned. “I can’t do it. Words won’t come out. I failed… so close to our goal… Give it a try.”

Petrokles hopped onto the barrel. “Alas, poor Ekkos, cut in the flower of youth.” Petrokles began, his calm breaths steady. Miltiades envied his effortless composure, yet…it was all wrong, as Miltiades realized with growing despair. The delivery was wrong, and the wit sounded flat and strained. A schoolboy recited something he had memorized but without any of the feeling. Poetry of words without soul. The gods were not satisfied with the ridicule he endured on the barrel. His sharpest wit was reduced to a drab and emotionless delivery. His name would become a synonym for shame.

The crowd's polite applause echoed, far from the roaring support Miltiades had imagined. After a short bow, he invited anyone to speak with him directly and hopped down. A few people congratulated him on the speech but could not help them further.

With a big smile, Petrokles asked Miltiades. “How was I?”

Miltiades did not want to tell him the truth and vex him. “It’s in the hands of the gods now. We’ll see who responds. That will be the ultimate judge.”

Miltiades watched the small crowd disperse, leaving only an old woman. Well into her seventies, with a wiry frame and the start of a hunch, she took two steps forward and addressed Petrokles. Her clothes were faded, dirty, and spotted with a rainbow of stains and patches of contrasting colors. Her disheveled gray hair fought to escape under a frayed headscarf. Her leathery skin had a pale sheen like unpolished silver. Despite her wretchedness, she carried herself with a quiet, resilient dignity.

Her eyes kept going from the pair to the stairway. “You need a ship and a crew, right? My son is a captain. He’s not doing much these days. Great Athena be blessed! I came here to find a job and a cause that could take him out of the house.”

Miltiades stepped in. “We’ll need to meet him first; only brave heroes can join this expedition. Can he be counted among the brave?”

“You have nothing to worry about. My Nicias is as brave as they come. His father was a great hero.” Her eyes sparkled with pride as she spoke about him.

They arranged to meet the day after in Piraeus, the port city of Athenion.

“My Nicias will be there. Don't worry.” The two men watched the old woman scamper away.

“I’m curious about Nicias. The goddess of Wisdom may have given us her blessing. Thank you, Athena, wisest of the gods.” Their mood rose as they descended the esplanade.

* * *

The common room at the inn swung to the swift drum beats of an Olympian bear of a man. Before him, a foreign dancer twirled and gyrated on a short stage. Her dusky skin and curly black hair drew the eye as much as her curves and moves. Her rich complexion made the Olympians' bronzed skin seem dull by comparison. The crowd clapped, cheered, and held its breath with each kick, pirouette, or twirl.

“Close your mouth, Petrokles!” Miltiades slapped his friend on the arm.

Petrokles closed his mouth. “I wasn’t gawking. I was just…” But he was. His mouth hung open as the dancer flipped into a flawless handstand, sending her skirts flying in all directions, and the whole room held its breath, hoping to see flashes of her hidden treasure. With a swift kick, she returned to her feet in a flurry of colorful cloth.

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No one saw anything.

Miltiades smirked at Petrokles’ fascination and ordered another wine pitcher. He tapped Petrokles on the shoulder, but the dancer's dark, flailing legs kept his attention.

Petrokles shot to his feet as the final beats faded, cheering and applauding. The room joined him a second later. She smiled broadly, her white teeth gleaming under the inn's dim lights. She bowed to the acclamation while holding down her dress, trying to catch her breath. Blowing kisses with both hands, she thanked the cheering crowd.

“Do you think she’d join us?” Petrokles continued clapping enthusiastically.

“We’re heading into a fight, not a festival. A dancer won’t help us much. What use would she be on a ship?”

“She could serve as a diplomat. She can speak several foreign languages, like Farsian or Khamet. I’m sure of it. ”

Petrokles had a point. Though he expected to handle any diplomatic mission himself, having someone who spoke other languages could be helpful. Perhaps give them an advantage. Still, a lone woman on a ship with mostly men may not be the safest place for her. “We are going on a boat with several lonely men, and you want to bring a beauty like her?”

Petrokles nodded with unbridled enthusiasm.

“We are sailing into danger… Do you think that’s the right place for a young woman?”

“Is it a place for either of us? We come from a landlocked polity! At least she could liven our travel. She’d make the journey more bearable, don’t you think? It’s not like we’re signing up for a funeral! She would be much better at finding the people we need than with that face of yours!” He laughed. Miltiades shared the sentiment. She was quite the looker. “I’m going to invite her over…”

As the crowd returned to its seats and the applause died, Petrokles approached the stage to speak to the woman. She glided behind him, her hands gently lifting her skirt as she moved. She gracefully sat beside Petrokles and extended a delicate hand to Miltiades. “I’m Epicasta.” Her voice had a pleasant lilt that sounded foreign and local at once.

Petrokles filled his cup and offered it to her. She accepted it gracefully. Miltiades found her manners like those of a practiced courtier, moving with an entrancing grace as she drank slowly. She placed a friendly hand on Petrokles’ shoulder. “Petrokles, tell me about this offer. You have me curious.” Petrokles played with his hands like a shy boy, gargling incoherent noises. Her voice was sweet and soothing, calming Petrokles’ nerves. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite you… too hard.” Her humor did not help Petrokles’ sudden timidity.

“We are meeting a captain to sail off on a quest,” Miltiades said. He didn’t mind telling her what they were doing; he had no more information to give.”

“A quest! Tell me about it,” she leaned into Miltiades. She mastered her body language better than most ladies of the court. Her manners held a noble countenance that drew in Miltiades, something beyond her sparkling eyes and perfect skin.

Miltiades reclined on his chair. “We are going to save Ekkos.”

“Ekkos? Isn’t that…”

“In Aeolia, yes,” Petrokles blurted out.

She pulled back, her expression darkening with a curt 'Oh.' Her interest in the conversation died. “I’ll think about it… Leaving Athenion is a big decision. I have to check several things first.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to drop whatever you do without proper thought.” Petrokles refilled her cup but left it untouched on the table.

She embraced Petrokles briefly and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He blushed. “Good luck on your journey, boys. I’ll see you when you return.” With that, she stood up and left. Petrokles turned to look at her, making her way through the room.

She would be trouble on a ship. Miltiades did not wish to give Petrokles an “I told you so,” even if he wanted to.

“You Miltiades?”

Miltiades turned to face a man with balding salt and pepper hair, a flabby gut, and the red bulbous nose of a drunk. A revolting stench of stale wine clung to him. “I’m Nicias. My mother would not stop yapping at me until I spoke to you, you know. She dreams of me becoming a hero, you know. My mother? She’s the only one who still believes in me, you know. She said you were looking for a ship. I have a ship. And I’m available.”

Miltiades gestured for the newcomer to take a seat. “I need a ship and heroes for a quest. What skills do you bring to the team?”

Nicias threw his head back, laughing. “Skills? I can do whatever, you know! I’ve done it all. Carpentry, bricklaying, sailing, pearl diving, even weaving. Name it, I’ve done it, you know.”

Miltiades doubted such a man possessed all the skills he boasted to have but decided not to challenge him. Especially since he seemed willing to help. “What about fighting? Did you train as a soldier? Or ever fought a monster?” Miltiades asked.

Nicias scratched the top of his head. “I trained with the city phalanx once. Didn’t like it. Monsters? I prefer things that can’t eat me, you know.” He chuckled, his hand drifting toward the wine pitcher once more.

Miltiades wondered why the gods mocked him by sending him this drunk. He forced a smile, stalling for time to consider his options.

Petrokles turned back from watching Epicasta go about the room, flirting with everyone. “I’m Petrokles.” They shook hands. “Are you joining our expedition?”

Another cup. “I don’t know. I might, you know. Depends on what you need. Who else you got?”

Miltiades and Petrokles remained silent.

“That bad? I can help you, you know. Get me another pitcher of wine, and I just might agree to go with you two.” Nicias tapped his empty cup on the table. “Make heroes of us all.”

* * *

Docked at the end of the pier, the Endoxos was a penteconter with a single rank of rowers, a square sail, and minimal cargo space. Penteconters were replaced decades ago by larger, more versatile triremes. Only poor navies and individuals owned and operated them anymore.

The Endoxos was smaller than most penteconters, its length just over twenty paces, giving it a cramped, outdated look. The main deck could be covered by wood panels to expand the surface, but exposing anyone above to the elements. Fifty rowers, twenty-five a side, could operate the ship at peak efficiency. The rowers’ benches could be covered when going into battle to protect the crew.

The Endoxos barely stayed afloat, creaking and groaning with every shift, as though the sea carried out of pity.

Miltiades scanned the ragtag group of sixty men, a few of whom inspired confidence. He couldn't fathom how Nicias had assembled this motley crew without funds to his name. He credited the Olympians’ lust for fame as heroes for their willingness to join. But by their appearance and smell, he dragged them out of the culvers, drinking halls, sewers, or hospices. Half of them struggled to stand upright, coughing or slouching heavily. Miltiades glanced skyward, silently praying to Zeus for guidance. Though Nicias vouched for their skills, Miltiades had doubts, and no one else seemed reassured.

Miltiades went through the formality of asking each man a few basic questions: Who are you? Why are you joining the crew? Do you have any previous naval or martial experience? What did you do before joining the crew? To their credit, they answered succinctly but clearly. Almost all sailed with Nicias before, and most spent years in the Athenion Navy as rowers or sailors. A handful had fought in the phalanx or as marines in battles against Spartians and Pellasians. Most joined for glory or coins. A few said they wanted to escape their wives, which degenerated into a series of woman jokes. If their physical appearance did not impress, their esprit-de-corps and camaraderie did.

Miltiades walked back to Petrokles, seeking to validate his thoughts about the crew. “What do you think?”

Petrokles shrugged. “Not much. They seem willing to go for what you pay them…”

“We agreed to take a chance on Nicias. Why not trust him with his crew? You’re paying with hope and food. Who else would you expect to work for that?” Miltiades tried to convince himself more.

Petrokles didn’t like it. “Ekkos means nothing to them… We’d be sailing with the dregs of Athenion.”

“Having a crew is better than no crew at all. We don’t have much choice. If Melita comes through, we’ll have everything we need.” Even if things didn’t seem ideal, Miltiades believed he had the tools to complete his mission. This realization rekindled a faint glimmer of hope.

After a brief pause, Petrokles seemed to agree. “I wonder why you put so much faith in that drunk... Could we not wait for someone else to come along?”

Long seconds passed before Miltiades replied, “These are the men we have… With them, we’ll create a legend for the ages.” After a long pause, “Let’s buy their friendship and loyalty.”

Petrokles gulped. “How do you plan on doing that?”

“Wine! Get us a few amphorae of wine for their goodwill and loyalty before things go wrong. Load the ship with the cheapest wine you can find. More is better than good.” Miltiades handed a coin purse to Petrokles. The purse held the last of their coins.