Episode 11 (480 BC):
A heavy silence hung in the air as they made their way back to Agatha's house. Kharma clung tightly to Zenodulos' hand, perhaps for support, or maybe for something more. But for him, it was as if the frightened girl didn't exist. Each one was lost in their own thoughts, overwhelmed by the uncertainty of their new reality. What would become of them now that they had lost their mortality?
Before they realized it, they were standing in front of the house that had seen Zenodulos grow up since he was a child. The wooden façade was blackened with age, as if the house itself felt the same turmoil as its inhabitants.
Callisto and Auxentius waited at the entrance, while Arsames and Karma helped Agatha pack as much as they could carry. Zenodulos, more of a hindrance than a help, sat in a corner watching the commotion. Meanwhile, he pondered: Should he stay and fight for Athens, even though his immortality made him an easy target for the Persian army? The thought of being captured and tortured sent a shiver down his spine.
"Better not to rush into anything," he said to himself. "There will be time to prove my worth."
Arsames interrupted his thoughts by standing before him, a bag full of objects hanging from his back. His face reflected the tension of the moment.
—We are ready—he murmured.
Zenodulos nodded and allowed himself to be helped up, clinging to the Persian's arm. Together they headed to the garden, where the rest of the group awaited them with their belongings in their arms.
—All set, then—Agatha confirmed, looking at her six companions —Let's hurry.
Following the orders of the mistress of the house, the group of immortals set off towards their destination: Phalerum.
They walked through the deserted streets of Athens, shrouded in an eerie silence. Only the echo of their footsteps broke the stillness of the night.
The group led by Auxentius left the southern gates of the city, open to receive the enemy, as the true defense was on the acropolis, and they set off on the road leading to the port. In the distance, to the east, the coast could be seen, calm in the darkness of dawn.
Behind Auxentius were the girls: Kharma, head down, carrying as much weight as her small body could bear. By her side, Agatha relieved her, carrying part of her belongings. Callisto, with the strength that her experience as an archer gave her, carried a large number of bags in her hands. Zenodulos and Arsames brought up the rear, watching the rearguard and protecting the group from any threat.
Suddenly, Zenodulos' ear caught the sound of stealthy footsteps. He turned abruptly, discovering a lightly armed warrior who, upon being discovered, hid in the undergrowth.
When the freedman turned to alert the others, it was too late. A hail of deadly arrows rained down on them, slightly wounding Kharma and Arsames in the arms.
— Run! — Arsames shouted in a commanding voice—I'll stay to delay them.
—But... — Agatha protested.
—There is no time to argue— Her Eastern slave replied agitated.— If they capture you, your immortality will not save you from the atrocities they will inflict upon you.
— I can't leave you...
Auxentius understood the gravity of the situation.
— It's urgent, Agatha. Remember, he's immortal. We'll meet again.
Callisto, with a nod to Agatha, made it clear that it was the best option. Everyone fled in a hurry.
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But they forgot someone.
Zenodulos remained standing by sheer willpower, as Arsames had released him in the confusion. Kharma, realizing this, turned and ran towards him, but Agatha dropped one of her bags and grabbed her arm firmly. Kharma struggled, while her owner dragged her along. A group of soldiers emerged from among the trees, and one of them ran towards the girls with the intention of catching them.
Arsames lunged at the soldier who was chasing them, both falling to the ground in a struggle.
Another soldier pounced on Zenodulos, pushing him violently. Zenodulos fell to the ground with a thud. The pain was unbearable for Zenodulos, weakened as he was, he could not defend himself. A spear pierced his chest quickly, and his consciousness slowly faded. The last thing he saw was the face of a dark-skinned man who seemed to come from another region of the empire, different from Arsames's.
Darkness.
What he was experiencing was like a dream. But it was nothing more than the experience that all living beings faced when they died.
However, for that group, this was only a brief interruption.
Slowly, vision returned to Zenodulos' eyes. He watched as Arsames fought fiercely against his former comrades.
In the slave's bloodied hands, a dagger gleamed, the same one he had used against me. While on the ground lay three men, dead. Their blood stained the grass red.
With renewed strength and no trace of pain, Zenodulos rose more easily than before. In that moment he understood that his legend would begin that very night: the legend of the immortal Zenodulos.
A Persian archer, surprised to see Zenodulos still alive, shot an arrow at him that crossed his chest. A sharp pain seized him, but Zenodulos was no longer afraid of anything or anyone.
With a roar of fury, Zenodulos ran towards the archer and quickly pulled the arrow out of his chest. Blood oozed from the open wound, but he didn't flinch. The archer, terrified, tried to flee, but Zenodulos caught up with him and plunged the broken arrow into his neck, killing him instantly. It was the first human life that man had taken, but he felt no remorse. He was his enemy, after all.
Seeing the futility of their struggle, the other Persian warriors let out incomprehensible cries for help that echoed through the nearby woods. Immediately, more footsteps were heard, even non-human footsteps.
A new group of warriors emerged from hiding, and the gallop of a horse grew louder. Suddenly, a rider dressed in fine robes of intense colors and an excessively decorated one, lance in hand, appeared before the two immortals.
—He is one of the immortals, the personal guard of the shahanshah— Arsames murmured in a tone of concern.
At another time, Zenodulos would have made some joke about how they were more immortal than the Persian king's guards, but he didn't have the chance.
The Persian general, an imposing-looking man, shouted at his soldiers. Frustration was evident in his voice. After all, they couldn't defeat two simple enemies.
More orders came from the general's mouth. His horse charged towards Zenodulos, ramming him with fury. But before the immortal could hit the ground, a spear pierced him, killing him again. Undoubtedly, he was an elite soldier.
However, Zenodulos did not worry. He knew that he would soon awaken from that brief trance of death.
Upon regaining his vision, Zenodulos found himself immobilized. A group of soldiers held him by his limbs, preventing any movement. He tried to flee with all his might, but the struggle was in vain. His only hope now rested on his companion, Arsames.
On the other side of the battlefield, Arsames fought fiercely against the Persian general. With a swift movement, he stabbed the enemy's horse, knocking both of them to the ground. However, the general did not surrender so easily. He freed himself from the dead animal and drew a small dagger from his belt.
The two men stared into each other's eyes, their murderous intentions gleaming in their gazes. Suddenly, they lunged at each other. Arsames was a formidable warrior, but the general had better weaponry. The slave's dagger shattered against his enemy's weapon, and the general took the opportunity to deliver a mortal blow to Arsames' neck.
Despite the death of his opponent, the general already knew that he was fighting a true immortal. He ordered his soldiers to capture the unconscious Persian and tie him up with ropes. When Arsames awoke, it was too late. His efforts to free himself were in vain.
Both immortals had been overwhelmed by the sheer number of King Xerxes' army. And this was just a small part of his fearsome horde.
They took them east, further and further from the city gates. Soon they arrived at a military camp in the middle of the forest, where activity was bustling.
The tents, arranged in neat rows, stretched as far as the eye could see. Soldiers of all backgrounds were busy at their tasks, sharpening swords, preparing armor, and chanting war songs. The smell of smoke, sweat, and raw meat filled the air. While the smoldering fires cast terrifying elongated shadows over the camp.
On seeing the prisoners, some soldiers hurled insults and mockery at them. Their faces, weathered by the sun and war, contorted into grimaces of hatred. But their superior brushed them aside with a gesture of disdain. He ordered them to be taken to a log near the camp. There they were tied up with ropes, left at the mercy of the nearby soldiers' vigilance.
The legend of the immortal Zenodulos had not started on a good note.