Episode 12 (480 B.C):
The impoverished Zenodulos and Arsames, having bought their comrades time to flee, found themselves forced to pay a visit to the eastern army camp. They were just a few steps away from invading Athens.
Despair and helplessness overwhelmed the two men. That very night they had learned of the Spartans' defeat. Now, the only hope for victory was the distraction that the deserted city represented while the Greek confederation gathered all the troops they could muster on the island of Salamis.
It was possible that the Persian king already knew they were trying to mislead him, but perhaps he found it quite tempting to wipe out the famous city and seize its legendary treasures. However, let's leave aside the war games of monarchs and leaders to focus on what mattered most to the Persian and the freedman: getting out of their bonds.
They found themselves bound like lambs about to be sacrificed, while they watched their captors enjoy the clamor before the impending battle. Silence had fallen upon our protagonists. Zenodulos observed his companion, in whose eyes frustration was reflected.
—Hey—Zenodulos said, finally breaking the silence. — You fought very well back there. You must have held a high position in the army.
Zenodulos got no response from Arsames, just a lifeless stare. Offended, the Greek insisted:
—Tell me, Arsames, what will be our fate? Do the armies of the shashan... of the Persian king also sell their prisoners as slaves?
The easterner looked at him with a somber tone and finally replied:
—It is most likely. After all, what else can they do with us? They cannot kill us.
A new silence fell over them. Perhaps it hadn't been a good idea to try to be a hero that time...
Overwhelmed once more, Zenodulos observed the troop. They were now in position, listening to one of their generals, a man dressed in gleaming fabrics mounted on a white horse. He was giving orders in a language that the Greeks only heard as "ba ba ba," a "barbarian" language.
— Can you translate what he is saying? —Asked the freedman.
—He is giving orders for the invasion —Answered the Persian—. Soon they will head towards the city.
At that moment, the general raised his spear in a war cry and most of the soldiers in the camp ran towards the city.
Zenodulos waited a bit for them to leave and tried again to free himself from his bonds, but to no avail. There was nothing else to do but wait with resignation.
Shortly thereafter, the sounds of battle could be heard: loud bangs against wood and stone, they were probably destroying any building they found in their path. Zenodulos' heart pounded and his sweat turned cold, he didn't want to imagine those troops ransacking Cleon's house.
Then, cries of pain, weapons clashing and bouncing off other objects. The Athenian didn't want to imagine the massacre that was taking place in his city, but he couldn't even cover his ears.
Hours passed and the sun rose, accompanied by the sinister symphony of violence in the distance.
Then, the heat flooded the forest. As he observed the Acropolis from afar, the freedman watched with uncertainty as large columns of smoke rose from various parts of the city. In the Parthenon itself, a burst of fire burned like an ominous bonfire on the mountaintop. It was all over, the symbol of the city's patron goddess had been destroyed.
The following hours were torment. Uncertainty and fear loomed over them like a thick fog. Zenodulos watched that mountain in the distance, barely visible through the smoke of extinguished flames.
When the sun was already high in the sky, the fire had turned the city's sacred buildings into mounds of black charcoal, an imposing soldier mounted on a horse and wearing the characteristic clothing of the king's guards approached the two men. He spoke several words that were incomprehensible to Zenodulos, who looked at his companion waiting for the translation.
—He wants us to follow him without resisting. —Arsames said.
With little desire to see that darkness again, the two immortals obeyed their enemy and were led out of the forest towards the city.
The landscape that greeted them as they passed through the city gates was desolate, as only destruction could be seen. The corpses of Athenians and Orientals lay on the ground, their blood staining the earth red, while the makeshift defenses erected by the townspeople had been razed to the ground.
To demoralize their opponent and claim the city as their own, the invading army hung several of their banners in different parts of the city, including the passage that led to the destroyed Parthenon. Scarlet banners with a golden bird adorned the alleys.
The look in Arsames' eyes reflected the same terror that flooded Zenodulos' soul. The two immortals were then led through the blood-soaked and rubble-strewn streets towards the agora. The statue of the tyrannicides, now a symbol of the supernatural pact between those seven people, had disappeared, probably turned into war booty by the invading king.
Next to the square, on top of the Areopagus hill, once the place where homicide and religious trials were held, there was now a majestic camp of bright green and gold colors, surrounded by other almost as imposing. Without a doubt, the architects of the war were there.
The prisoners of war climbed the hill and entered the largest camp without resistance, and only two of the soldiers who were holding them entered, probably the others did not have the honor of entering His Majesty's tent.
As they crossed the threshold of the opulent tent, they were met with a display of wealth and power. The walls, hung with colorful Persian fabrics, displayed intricate gold embroidery that narrated the victories of the empire. Even the floor was covered with a thick rug, so that the monarch would not get his boots dirty.
In the center of the tent a large table, with several maps, served as a meeting point for the strategists and among the chairs the one that stood out the most was a golden throne, adorned with various gems and two golden lions on the sides.
Occupying the throne was Xerxes, a man in his 30s with war-weathered features. Sitting in a majestic way (perhaps for him it was as natural as breathing to see himself like that), his serious gaze only contemplated inferiority. A thick, dark beard, adorned with gold beads, framed his face.
His robust build was accentuated by a royal tunic in pastel colors embroidered with gold threads. Without a doubt, even his body and what he wore had to be a symbol of royal majesty.
That monarch from distant lands observed them with a penetrating gaze, with a gesture of his hand another man appeared before him. Short, fat, with short hair and well dressed, he seemed to be his slave. But he was also his castrated eunuch to watch over the well-being of his wives and daughters without the risk of getting them pregnant.
Xerxes spoke in a grave and authoritative voice in his native language. Then, his servant translated to Zenodulos everything he said.
—My great lord: the king of kings, king of Persia and Babylon, pharaoh of Egypt, ruler of all lands, monarch of the tyrants of Ionia, destroyer of rebellions...— ... and future conqueror of all Greece, asks them where they got the immortality that they have spoken to him about.
Zenodulos and Arsames exchange glances. They both know that it would not be wise to reveal the truth about their immortality to a king as ambitious as Xerxes.
Xerxes, with a disdainful expression on his face, dictates his words to his bilingual servant:
— My great lord wishes to express his benevolence: just as he pardoned an Athenian tyrant and a fugitive Spartan king, he offers you clemency if you will reveal what he desires to know. Otherwise, his fury will fall upon you, for he does not tolerate disloyalty to his magnificent person and to the god of truth.
The two immortals shudder at the mention of the foreign god. Zenodulos does not know how he could possibly tell him, even if he wanted to, that it was the enemy of his patron deity who had given them eternal youth.
Xerxes, growing impatient, utters threat after threat. Before the servant can translate them, a high-ranking soldier bursts into the tent.
Another torrent of insults erupts from the king's mouth, echoing among the fabrics that make up the tent, this time directed at the newcomer. But the soldier, walking urgently towards his superior, hands him a letter.
The king's anger dissipates as he reads the contents, and with a disdainful gesture, he dismisses the emissary.
Turning around, his gaze meets that of Zenodulos’ ally. His eyes widen in surprise and a brief exchange in Persian takes place between them. The freedman understands absolutely nothing of the conversation, but the soldier seems to be known to Arsames.
Let me make this easier for you, my dear actor
Turning to look at me, although I was not physically in that room, Zenodulos searched for me in every corner of the miniature palace without seeing anything out of the ordinary, but after a few seconds he realizes something surprising: he can understand what those foreigners are saying.
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—Where did you say you saw him before? —The king asked the soldier.
— His father fought with me in the Egyptian rebellion in his father's reign, Your Majesty —the warrior replied.
Xerxes raised his eyebrows, a glint of surprise in his gaze.
— How could the son of such a distinguished soldier have fallen so low as to aid my enemies, the followers of falsehood?
—I was captured at Marathon, sir. — Arsames replies with a small bow — Then I was made a slave in the same house as this Greek.
Zenodulo's stomachs churned as he listened to his companion speak so humbly with the enemy king, but he preferred to leave the fact that he could understand them for a more opportune moment.
— That doesn't excuse your aiding our enemies —Said that monarch—They humiliated my father in that battle, soldier.
—I'm sorry sir, but they treated me with kindness.
The other soldier intervened.
— My lord, Arsames has a wife and son who believed him dead. Please don't be too harsh on him
—I will decide what punishment he deserves— Xerxes stated, dismissing the servant with a wave of his hand.
The military man had no choice but to withdraw. Now without that man, the monarch observed the captured war veteran with dissatisfaction.
— So your name is Arsames. Listen, soldier. I've already said I can be generous. If you tell me how you achieved immortality, I will forgive your alliance with these... false god worshippers and allow you to return to your family.
Xerxes fixed his gaze on both immortals. Zenodulos watched him with defiance, while the slave, bent in resignation, remained silent, hesitant.
— What matters more to you? —His ruler said to him, with arrogance in his voice— This freed slave or your family? For I warn you, soldier, I am the king of kings, second only to our great supreme god. I can torture both of you in a thousand ways until I get the information I desire. You decide whether you prefer my generosity or my ruthlessness.
The internal struggle was reflected on the slave's face, sweat pouring down his forehead.
—My lord, I beg you to forgive me —He said with a trembling voice — But I cannot reveal the secret of our immortality. It is a pact we made with a higher power. Besides, my family will be better off without me. I am no longer the man who left.
The monarch became furious, his face reddened with anger.
— Insolent! Do you dare defy the very king of kings? I swear by the name of Ahura Mazda himself that if you do not tell me how you obtained immortality, I will execute your family!
Arsames turned pale, anguish gripping his face.
—No, please! Don't hurt them! —He implored— I'll tell you everything, but don't do anything to my wife and my dear Rostam.
Zenodulos lunged at Arsames, breaking free from the unsuspecting guard who held him.
— Traitor! —He shouted— How dare you defy me and the contract you swore before Cleon?
— How could you understand what we were talking about? — Asked the bewildered Persian.
Zenodulos struck him with his bound hands. Arsames, also freeing himself from his captor, pushed his former fellow slave away.
— Do you expect me to condemn my family to death? What would you do in my place?
The Athenian didn't know what to answer. Anger blinded him. When he tried to attack his companion again, the soldier held him firmly, preventing any movement. After all, it had only been two days since he had awakened from his coma.
Xerxes watched the scene from his throne, a smile playing on his lips.
— Do it for your family, Arsames. Tell me the secret of immortality and I swear you can go back to them.
—I'm sorry, Zenodulos.
Anger and hatred clouded the freedman's judgment, unable to think of anything else but to savagely beat the one who had been his ally. That man, with whom he had fought against the soldiers of the vain king, the one who had helped him so many times and spoken for him before being sold to that terrible house. He could not accept such a betrayal.
But the soldier's grip was like that of a packhorse. Zenodulos struggled with all his might, kicking and punching, but it was useless. Fury consumed him, but his body was not the same as before. Suddenly, a veil of confusion seized him. The Persian words, which he could once understand by divine whim, became incomprehensible. The shouts of the Persians echoed off the walls of that place.
What he could understand was that they were taking him away from the tent, the soldier who held him like a farm animal, threw him against the hill of the Areopagus to the ground, causing him several injuries from the strong blows and the rubbing against the stones. That soldier walked slowly and took him back by his leash, being dragged mercilessly through the streets, his body crashing against the ground and walls. Blood flowed from his wounds, mixing with the earth and dust.
Finally, they threw him like a bale of goods into an abandoned house. The door slammed shut, leaving Zenodulos in darkness.
The stench of decay and dampness filled the air. The only light came from a small opening in the roof, through which a faint ray of sunlight filtered. The Athenian, bruised, bloodied, and covered in dirt, struggled to his feet. His body ached all over. Thirst and hunger tormented him. He cried out for help, but only the echo of his own voice answered him.
After spending countless hours banging on the door and walls, searching for a way out, Zenodulos gave up. His eyelids fell shut heavily, and darkness enveloped him. A deep, dreamless sleep overcame him, a temporary escape from his agonizing reality.
Suddenly, he awoke, struggling to sit up, feeling even greater exhaustion than before and an unbearable emptiness in his stomach. His mind filled with questions as he looked around the dimly lit abandoned house. Who had inhabited this place? There was no way to tell from the personal belongings of its occupants, as there were none, probably taken in their flight from the city, or perhaps the house was looted by the invading army.
After hours of more fruitless banging on the door and walls, trying to escape, Zenodulos succumbed to fatigue. His bruised hands did not have the strength to break through the walls. Hunger merged into a cruel embrace with fatigue, and without any strength, he collapsed to the floor, just like those terrible days in Acacius's house. Then he fell asleep again.
Zenodulos awoke again to the whispers of men in an incomprehensible language. As he searched for the source of these sounds, he saw that there was an opening where a couple of helmeted men were watching him with sadistic smiles on their lips. The freedman wanted to rush and beat them up, but he had no strength. The hunger was too great to ignore, but there was nothing in that house to eat.
The days dragged on in an endless agony. Zenodulos grew weaker and weaker. His body was wasting away, a victim of starvation. The gaze of the soldiers, who watched him through a window they had opened, was a mixture of contempt and mockery. They knew it was only a matter of time before he succumbed. Death was inevitable.
More time passed, only the thread of light that entered through the gap in the ceiling told the prisoner of war how much time had passed. But he was already accustomed to this kind of routine, after all, for him, it had only been days since he escaped, almost dead, from Acacius's house. Without the energy to even insult the guards who murmured from outside the house, he resigned himself to waiting for his death and his subsequent return to life.
His body finally succumbed. He felt his being slowly fade away, the victim of one of the most excruciating deaths anyone could experience. A brief silence, an unknown darkness, and then Zenodulos awoke with renewed energy.
Pretending exhaustion, he moved his head towards the opening. The same men from the previous occasion were watching him with mockery. Tensing his legs, the immortal prepared to attack. It seemed that every time he revived, he regained the strength he had as a child.
Like a lightning bolt, the Greek rose to his feet. The eyes of his opponents widened in surprise as they saw him standing up. In a matter of seconds, he reached the opening and struck one of them with all his might. Pain shot through his fist, but it was nothing compared to the agony he had felt before he died. The soldiers uttered a torrent of words that sounded like insults, but the Greek paid no attention, he was ready to fight. The gap had widened thanks to his blow, and he strained to widen it even further.
A spear, like an arrow, pierced the opening and wounded Zenodulos in the shoulder. However, the Athenian, no longer afraid of death, dragged the weapon's bearer inside, further widening the opening. Seeing the other man's head poking through the hole, he held him tightly and dragged him in. With his eyes fixed on his neck, the Athenian squeezed him with all his might, trying to strangle him. At that moment, the door of the house burst open and another soldier rushed in with his weapon, stabbing the immortal in the heart.
Succumbing to his wounds, unconsciousness enveloped him once more. As if only a blink had passed, his mind returned to the abandoned house. He tried to move, but he was tied to a column with thick ropes. The speed with which they had captured and restrained him left him stunned.
He tried in vain to break free with his renewed strength, but they had strongly tied up that immortal. Surrendering, Zenodulos looked towards the opening, and realized that there was no one there. However, when he saw the door, he could notice the shadow of someone else on the other side of the entrance. He was still being watched like the rabid dog he was.
After a string of insults directed at his lair, curses that bounced off the wooden walls and found no response, Zenodulos exhausted his last strength in vain efforts to break free. His muscles were no longer responding due to exhaustion. So, he closed his eyes and rested his head against the column that kept him immobile. Having a strange dream.
Opening his eyes wide, he once again glimpsed the room where he was, but his mind felt light, as if he were drunk, that sensation reminded him of that time, almost five years ago...
A blanket of darkness began to envelop the room from corner to corner until everything around the freedman was covered in immaculate blackness. Absolute silence reigned, broken only by the sound of his own breathing.
Then, a figure already quite familiar to him appeared: me.
A shiver ran down Zenodulos' spine. He couldn't get used to my presence, despite having been the only companion of his mind during his long coma.
— What do you want now? —He asked defiantly, as if I couldn't read his fears.
My eyes fell on that man. It was so fascinating to watch him fight against his destiny. However, that fragile being needed a little push...
That night I mentioned that I would give you abilities other than your immortality, do you remember?
That being tried to remember, but perhaps the surprise of the moment made him forget. Oh, Zenodulos, I expected more from you.
The immortality that I granted you is not enough to achieve your goals, is it? After all, your gods always blessed heroes with certain gifts. So, while you observe me, your companions are also receiving my precious presents.
— Can you hold seven conversations at the same time?
That's right, my dear Zenodulos, I already mentioned that I am a being beyond your imagination, right?
Astonished, that man wondered what his faculty would be.
To add a touch of drama to the scene, I extended my pale, bony hand towards the prisoner. A crimson halo of energy enveloped him and he felt a tingling sensation run through his body. The energy seeped into his being and now he was more than just an immortal.
To you, who yearn to be the master of everything your mind can imagine and conceive, I grant you the gift of tricking. You can deceive anyone who does not know you into confusing you with someone else. In short, you can convince a simpleton that you are his long-lost brother. The possibilities are endless, limited only by your own imagination. However, it is not infallible; you will discover this with time.
Thinking about what he could do with such a humble gift, ideas swirled around and around in the mind of that ignorant man. Then he wondered something...
— What kind of powers do the others have?
Oh, my dear Zenodulos, where would the fun be if I revealed everything to you? I invite you to discover it for yourself.
Before I left there was one very important thing I needed to tell the immortals... how to die...
But you know what? It would be much more fun for them to discover it by accident, I'm sure they won't take long.
With nothing more to reveal, I left without saying goodbye. Now, the Athenian had to escape on his own.
As he noticed that the faint light was returning to the room, the prisoner realized that the dream was coming to an end.
— Wait! I have more questions!
But my translucent body disappeared as if it were smoke and that man found himself alone again, his only companion was the guard he could not see and his heart pounded with force at what he had witnessed.