Episode 22 (???):

In the primordial darkness, the place where all consciousness has been and will be, someone floated adrift, without memories or a past. The only thing other than them was a voice, unsure if it was their own or not, urging them to wake up immediately. But they felt no energy to obey, nor did they truly remember how to leave.

This being had no idea how long they had been there, but the voice was becoming increasingly annoying. So, struggling against the darkness, they recalled how to throw a punch into the void, and suddenly a light shattered the blackness they had grown accustomed to.

The consciousness, now a man named Demosthenes, opened his eyes for the first time in a long time. He blinked, disoriented, as his eyes adjusted to seeing again. Gradually, the darkness dissipated, revealing an increasingly familiar landscape.

He found himself in a cave, surrounded by fragments of a marble-white material. A cold wind crept through the crevices of the rocky cave walls, enveloping him in a frigid caress. He rose awkwardly, still dazed. His hands touched the rough surface of the stone, and finally, he remembered that it was the same cave where he and Agatha had taken refuge.

Memories flooded back into his mind in waves. His life in Athens, Zenodulos' betrayal, their escape, their journey, when his wife turned to stone and then he too... Everything became clear in an instant. And with the memories, came back the anguish. Where was Agatha? Had she managed to escape petrification?

He exited the cave, and the sun momentarily blinded him. When his eyes adjusted to the light, he could make out the shadows of the forest outside.

However, the landscape had changed. The trees were less abundant, and in the distance, he could see the city of Massalia, the one Agatha had mentioned. The trees were felled, possibly due to urban expansion.

Beyond the city, Demosthenes saw the coast, once so present in his hometown, was similar to the one he saw growing up, but different at the same time. Then he wondered how long he had been asleep and how the others were doing.

Suddenly, a sturdy man with sun-weathered skin approached him from behind a tree. He carried a spear and steel plates that protected him: he was a guard, but his armor was much better than that of the men who had attacked him before.

—Hello... sir — The man said, intrigued by Demosthenes' attire, a tunic made of animal skins.— Are you from around here?

The language was different from that of the other men, but Demosthenes did not trust him. He was not speaking Greek either, so he could be from the local tribes, despite his more Hellenized appearance.

— Sir...?

—No, I'm not from around here.

—Oh, what a relief. You can speak Latin. Those clothes are certainly strange. Were you living as a hermit? Honestly, I've never seen you around here.

—Something like that —Demosthenes replied, still on the defensive.— I'm from Athens...

—Incredible, that's quite far away. —The soldier was genuinely surprised and now seemed friendlier—. What brought you here to Gaul?

— Gaul...?

—Yes... that's what this region is called. How do you Athenians call it?

—I have no idea —the Greek said honestly, but there was no time for conversation, he needed answers about his wife.— Haven't you seen a Greek girl with red hair and green eyes? She should be about my age. If not, at least you could tell me if you've seen her... statue.

—What a strange question —The soldier said, putting a hand on his chin, pondering. — But no, I really haven't seen any girl like the one you describe... or her statue.

Demosthenes relaxed a little. This man seemed more willing to help than the others, although it was probably because his greed hadn't been activated by the statue of a "very beautiful woman," in the words of Demosthenes and the Ligurian who seemed to have taken her away.

Giving up on finding information about Agatha's whereabouts, he preferred to get up to date, starting by knowing where he was standing.

—So we are in "Gaul" and I guess that city is the one Agatha mentioned —the Greek murmured—. What year is it?

The man looked at him as if he were crazy.

—In the 3rd year of Emperor Augustus Germanicus.

— Emperor? Who?

Now Demosthenes looked at him as if he were crazy.

—Don't the Greeks know who the current emperor is? He's Tiberius' grandnephew.

— Tiberius...?

That conversation was going nowhere. Thanks to his ability to understand languages, Demosthenes grasped the meaning behind those words, but those names were a complete mystery to him. He assumed they were names of barbarian kings and that they gave the name of their reigns to the years, just as each year after is named after the eponymous archon who was ruling.

— Have you been living out in the open for so long? —Asked the other man.

— Yes... It seems so.

Demosthenes, overwhelmed by desolation, gave up for the time being. His only hope was to return to Athens and look for clues there. Hoping that Zenodulos wasn't searching for them with such fervor after who knows how many years.

— I want to return to my city. What is the best way to get there? —Asked the Greek.

The man looked him up and down, a mocking smile on his lips.

— Well, Athens is far away, my friend. I advise you to go to Massilia and ask for directions.

Demosthenes nodded, ignoring the name change of the city. He headed towards the village, hoping to find answers.

The morning sun bathed the fields and the walled city grew larger with each step Demosthenes took along the cobblestone path. The salty air filled his lungs, reminding him nostalgically of the Attic coasts.

Upon reaching the gate, Demosthenes was impressed by the imposing stone towers flanked by iron gates, a far cry from the humble wooden gate of his hometown. A pair of soldiers, in armor similar to what he had seen in the forest, looked at him with suspicion, but let him pass without question.

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Upon entering, Demosthenes found himself engulfed in a torrent of sounds. It was a bustling city with a busy coastal market. The shouts of children and vendors mingled with the strong aroma of fish. Various languages resonated in the mouths, with Latin, the one spoken by the guard, being predominant. However, among all those languages, Demosthenes could appreciate a man speaking Greek, although a different dialect from his own.

The Greek was a bearded man, with a somewhat unkempt brown tunic, selling fake jewelry in a corner of the Marseille agora.

— It's good to see a Greek like me in these barbarian lands. — Demosthenes greeted him.

— We've been living here for hundreds of years, boy. I don't see why it would surprise you to see me —Said the man, perplexed, looking him up and down—. Are you dressed for a play?

— No, I have been living in the wilderness.

The man snorted with a stifled laugh.

— No doubt those foolish Roman patricians with their obsession with living in seclusion must envy you.

The Athenian didn't like the man's tone, but it was his only chance to return to his hometown and find his wife. He took a deep breath before continuing.

— Excuse me, could you please tell me the way to Athens?

— Oh, so you're from Athens. That explains your strange accent. Well, you're in luck, boy.—Said the middle-aged man. — If you want to go to Athens so badly, you can pay for a carriage there. Although, I see you don't have much money, so you'll have to walk. Start east and leave me alone.

Demosthenes gritted his teeth in frustration. He didn't have the money for a carriage, and the journey to Athens on foot would be long and dangerous.

Suddenly, a soldier tapped him on the shoulder, forcing him to turn around to face him. He was taller than the war veteran.

— In the name of the Emperor, I order you to come with us.

The immortal was stunned. What could the guards want with him?

—I've just arrived, what could I have done? —He protested.

—We know who you are, Demosthenes. — The guard said, showing him a parchment he was holding in his hand. — We were ordered to bring you to the emperor if we saw you.

On the primitive piece of paper was a fairly well-done drawing of Demosthenes, and to his surprise he could read what those strange letters said: his name and that he was a man who had evaded justice in Athens... It looked like the Zenodulos’s work.

Sensing the worst, Demosthenes' instinct prepared to escape. His plan was to charge the guard and run as far as possible. But suddenly two more soldiers came out to meet him, placing their wooden shields between him and freedom.

But this Greek was no novice in combat. Reacting quickly, he knocked one of the soldiers down with a well-aimed blow, but as he tried to flee, he found himself surrounded by a dozen guards who had been alerted to his presence.

Fleeing into a street that seemed empty, his hope was dashed when he found a group of archers aiming in his direction. A sharp whistle cut through the air and a hail of arrows struck him, piercing his flesh. The pain was unbearable, but Demosthenes did not give up. He spun around, looking for one last chance to escape.

However, it was too late. The brute force of the guards overwhelmed him. They tied him up and dragged him mercilessly towards a rundown cart. They threw him inside, closing the door behind him. Darkness engulfed him, and a nauseating stench filled his nostrils. Then the cart started moving.

And thus began the long journey towards a destination still unknown to the prisoner. The incessant sound of the wheels turning and the crash of a cart passing through a bump became a constant torture. Light would be a scarce luxury, as the darkness was so deep that he could only distinguish the vague shapes of the ceiling beams and walls.

In his mind, the Greek reviewed his tortuous path: the escape from Athens, his idyllic life with Agatha, the fateful fight against the Ligurians, the petrification, the awakening in an unknown place and the capture. Zenodulus' image tormented him. He had no doubt that he was the one responsible for his capture, as only he could have denounced him as a fugitive from Athens. Demosthenes wondered what relationship this man had with the emperor and how he had never heard of him. Besides, how many years had really passed?

When he died for the first time of starvation, he realized that his captors were not interested in feeding him, after all, they must have known that he was immortal. It was undoubtedly a terrible feeling, to die of hunger. Demosthenes just wanted to get out of there and find his beloved Agatha again. Maybe eat something on the way too.

After days of arduous travel, the cart stopped. Rough voices and the screeching of metal echoed from outside the vehicle. The door burst open and a blinding light flooded in. A man grabbed him by his fur tunic and dragged him out.

Demosthenes blinked, disoriented. Before him lay a majestic street flanked by imposing buildings of marble and other materials unknown to the Athenian. Colossal columns rose towards the sky, eclipsing even the grandiose structures of Athens, the temples of the Acropolis included. In the distance, aqueducts could be distinguished which, like bridges, carried water to different parts of the city. The Greek was unaware that he was in Rome, one of the largest cities of the time.

Without time to assimilate that view, he was dragged into a colossal building by the guards. A mass of wood and stone stood before them, bathed in the light of sunset. Demosthenes had never seen anything like it. And that was before the coliseum was even built.

The guards led him inside. As they passed under one of its gigantic arches, the shadows enveloped them momentarily until they reached the center of the stage.

A deafening roar erupted from the packed stands of that amphitheater, a vibrant mass of colors belonging to a giant group of people impatiently awaiting the event. Under the crowd, in the oval arena, there were two warriors: one carrying a net in one hand and a trident in the other, and another with a helmet that only two small openings left his owner to observe the outside. His weapon was a sword and a large shield was tied to his back.

Among the stands, at one end of the spacious place, there was a theater box made of carved wood and adorned with gold embroidery, contrasting with the rusticity of the amphitheater. There, two men were seated: one, well into his fifties, and the other was an individual that Demosthenes immediately recognized. Both were dressed in white tunics, although the older man wore a red toga over his tunic, while the younger one opted for a purple one, the color of royalty. Threads of gold adorned their garments, shimmering under the relentless sun. The younger man, Zenodulos, stood up and proclaimed:

— Citizens of Rome! Today you will witness an unprecedented spectacle! For the surprise guest of the day has arrived!

One of the guards pushed Demosthenes into the center of the arena, while the armed men watched him closely. The Greek took the opportunity to study Zenodulos more closely, intrigued by his strange attire. A cruel smile formed on his face as he fixed his gaze on the other immortal.

— Demosthenes, the immortal cursed by the gods! —He continued.

The crowd roared with enthusiasm; Demosthenes had never witnessed anything like it. It was as if they were presenting an athlete at the games in honor of the gods, but there was something vastly different this time. Horns and trumpets sounded, announcing the Athenian's entrance onto the stage, and the armed men saluted the audience. The Greek was not so naive as to not understand what was happening. The people had gathered in that amphitheater to witness a blood fest.

The man with the trident approached running. His scant clothing exposed his bare chest, and only the arm holding the net was protected by several armor plates that also covered his neck. Demosthenes had no desire to end innocent lives. So he turned towards the direction from which he had come, now facing large wooden doors blocking the way out. Then, his attention returned to the opponent who threw the net at him, immobilizing him. The audience roared with joy, and the trumpets sounded again.

The gladiator repeatedly stabbed Demosthenes with his trident, splattering blood onto the arena floor. With great effort, Demosthenes managed to free himself from the net, rising with difficulty. The warrior took a few steps back, and as Demosthenes approached to ask him to stop, the man threw a rock at his face, momentarily blurring his vision.

Staggering, Demosthenes managed to focus his sight and see how the other warrior ran to support his companion. The immortal stood up to counter the attack, but the man disoriented him with a shield blow and, without giving him time to react, stabbed him in the neck with his sword.

An excruciating pain washed over him, followed by the loss of consciousness. However, amidst the roar of the crowd and the scorching heat of the sun, Demosthenes awoke once more, struggling to rise on the burning sand of the stage. In the distance, he saw the two men celebrating before the ecstatic crowd.

— Rejoice —Shouted Zenodulos — The dreaded immortal has revived!

Bewildered, the two gladiators turned and witnessed the supernatural spectacle: Demosthenes, his wounds already healed, stood tall. His clothes, stained with the blood of battle, were nothing more than filthy rags in light of everything that had transpired since his awakening.

The battle, unfortunately for the Athenian, was far from over.