Episode 7 (484 B.C):

As soon as the wounded Zenodulos closed his eyes, he fell into a most peculiar dream.

He saw himself lifted into the air, observing everything from above. At his feet, he saw his own sleeping body, held by Auxentius and escorted by Callisto and a Scythian "archer." The three of them ran through the streets of Athens.

The dream was more real than any he had ever experienced, perhaps because he was injured, but he didn't think much about it and instinctively followed the busy group.

—Do you really know someone who can heal something so serious? — Callisto asked, breathlessly.

—He's the best physician I know— replied Auxentius, panting —If he can't heal him, no one can.

Zenodulos' mind spun, as if his memory had skipped a step. He now found himself in a room decorated with shelves full of jars of medicines and other natural remedies. On the bed, his pale body lay unconscious. Around him, the people who had taken him from Acacius' house surrounded him, along with a middle-aged man with a long beard and prominent baldness. His tunic was stained with blood, possibly the injured boy's.

As he floated closer to his real body, he realized that his chest and legs were bandaged. He had already received first aid.

"What kind of dream is this?" he thought.

—What can you tell me about his condition, Agathon? — A nervous Auxentius asked.

—He's breathing, which is the important thing— the doctor replied, wiping the blood from his hands with a piece of cloth—But he lost a lot of blood. It will take him a while to recover.

—What a relief...— The merchant said, collapsing to the floor, exhausted.

—And when will he wake up? — Callisto asked, still looking uneasy.

—I don't know, to be honest— Agathon replied sincerely. —His healing is now in the hands of the gods. I recommend sacrifices to Asclepius for his swift recovery.

—I can't just sit and wait for some god to show up and do his magic— Callisto whispered, still worried.

—I'm sorry, miss. That's all I can do— The medical expert said, shrugging his shoulders.

The hetaera had no choice but to lean against a wall, with her arms crossed.

Then, the soldier standing in the corner spoke up:

—Excuse me, I know it's a tense situation, but...

—Your duty as a servant of the eponymous archon— Auxentius said curtly

—I'm sorry, but I can't disobey my duties.

Callisto also decided to interrupt.

—Is it really necessary to arrest him? This man saved a poor child from a fucking madman who was taking advantage of him. What would you do in his place— she asked, indignant.

—It's not that, I understand perfectly why Mr. Auxentius did it— the Scythian replied. —Even our superior Ateas let them take the boy before apprehending you.

—Then what are you getting at? — Asked a worried Auxentius —Are you going to let me go?

—Not really — The distressed Scythian replied. —The Areopagus council will undoubtedly try to punish you for murder. If you're lucky, you might only get exile, but if not...

—They could execute me.

—Exactly, that's why my superior let him go with me, to give you a chance to escape.

—Escape from Athens? — The merchant's eyes widened. —It's the city that saw me grow up and I adore Athena like my own life, but... I like being alive.

—It's not every day you see such a play in reality— Added the doctor, listening attentively from a corner.

Abruptly, another cut in the ghostly Zenodulos' vision. Auxentius was furtively entering a small boat with his belongings tied up in a cloak strapped to his back. As he looked at his hometown for the last time, the boat set sail.

—All this for me...— Zenodulos whispered.

The merchant risked his business for the young slave he had only known for two years, an altruistic act, no doubt. Foolish, but generous.

—Who said that? — Asked the slave, his restless gaze scanning the horizon for an answer, but found only the vastness of the ocean. In the distance, he could barely make out the boat slowly sailing away.

Another turn in Zenodulos's memories brought him back to the grounds of Acacius's house. That dreadful place, where the most horrific moments of his life had unfolded.

In the room of the house's previous owner, well-dressed men were taking some letters from one of the shelves full of Persian books and documents. They were fake letters that Agatha had written in her father's name, supposedly to the King of Persia, placed there to incriminate him in a trial that never happened.

In the garden of the house were the surviving slaves: the old man who had escaped from the Spartans, the young man who had carried him to Acacius's room, and finally, Kharma. Facing the servants were Cleon and Arsames.

— By inheritance, these men and this house pass to the daughter of the previous owner. Our investigation led us to the conclusion that this man had no brothers, cousins or uncles, and his father had already died. His other male relatives also did not make a formal request to have this place. Therefore, the house becomes the property of...

— ...Of my son— Cleon interrupted the legal talk, since women could not inherit land, the place was now her husband's.

—Indeed —Said the demarchos, the magistrate of the suburb, with some bitterness—All his belongings and his slaves are now yours.

Cleon looked at the servants who were standing before him again. Without a doubt, they looked quite demoralized. So he looked at the Persian at his side with shame. "Arsames was right," he reflected bitterly.

— I understand that you two protected Acacius and also never interceded for the poor boy.

—You must understand, sir, we slaves are the property of our masters —The old man replied— If we had been on my lands...

—Silence — The master reprimanded him, clearly furious.—. It would not give me any more pleasure than to whip you, but that will not cure Zenodulos. I am going to sell you to the mines, I understand that they are always looking for servants.

— You can't do that to us— The other servant protested.

—It's what you deserve. Now I want you to be taken away, except...

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Cleon pointed to Kharma

—That girl, my daughter-in-law requests your services.

Finishing speaking, and ignoring the servants' pleas, the professor turns around and his Persian bodyguard signaled the girl to follow them, no doubt better times were coming for her life.

Zenodulos then wondered what happened to him. And, as if the play that the spectral boy was witnessing obeyed his question, the action moved to the place where his real body rested.

In a different bed from the one in the doctor's house, in a quite familiar place, he was there and around him were two other people ... Demosthenes and Agatha were observing the slave's living but vegetative body. The girl collapsed on the floor, tears in her eyes.

—It's all my fault—Agatha said through tears—If I hadn't written that letter to him, he wouldn't have had to suffer so much, poor Zenodulos.

Demosthenes put a hand on his wife's shoulder.

—It's not your fault, it's mine—the boy replied, his voice heavy with regret—If I had trusted your fidelity, if I hadn't been such an insecure loser ... No, from the beginning all I did was treat him badly.

It was the first time Zenodulos had seen his young master feeling guilty about the way he treated him.

—No, Demosthenes, don't blame yourself for that—Agatha replied, standing up—It was my father, how could I have been so blind not to see the monster he truly was?

Then she hugs her husband, a tender scene, but Zenodulos is disgusted by it, a reminder of the day his life fell apart.

Luckily for the unfortunate servant, Cleon entered the room, a smile on his face. When he saw the scene of the lovers, his mood rose even more. Since the wedding, there had been few moments when the young couple exchanged any words.

—I have good news—he said enthusiastically.

—Did they accept our request?— Agatha asked excitedly.

—That's right—Said the teacher—Both Zenodulos and all your father's properties, including the young slave girl, are yours.

A joy ran through the room and the three of them embraced in a deep hug.

That moment was so comforting that even the servant was happy, he even felt like joining the group hug, but everything turned dark again.

As the young man of meager means clung to life, a man who had everything he could ever desire had left his lands. It was time to invade those who had dared to humiliate them years ago.

The servant's mind was transported to a completely different place, the voice showed him an imposing army advancing without stopping. Countless soldiers, clad in light armor and carrying sharpened spears, marched in perfect formation. At their side, archers in small horse-drawn chariots kept pace, while in the rearguard, knights in gleaming armor escorted a gold-plated chariot. The military procession stretched as far as the eye could see, hundreds of thousands of souls converging on their target, in the inevitable war that loomed.

In the west, the conflicting poleis were doing their best to raise their defenses against the storm that loomed from across the sea.

The servant's mind was flooded with the vision of Greek soldiers in scarlet cloaks marching through a labyrinth of hillsides. Then, the unconscious young man found himself once again facing the vast sea, now covered by a large fleet of warships, a fleet never seen before on the peninsula, made for an unprecedented situation.

—I don't quite understand—Said a confused Zenodulos—Are you Angra Mainyu? Why are you showing me all this?

You must understand everything that has happened during your lethargy.

—So this isn't just a dream?

Without warning, several images flooded the young slave's consciousness.

In an unknown polis, Auxentios was selling Athenian products, taken from his homeland. This time he seemed to be more successful than when he sold those of Persian origin.

In a tavern, Callisto was drinking cheerfully, sitting on the lap of a burly subject, while he fondled her chest.

Demosthenes, already in his late teens, entered a military barracks for his mandatory military training, his ephebeia.

Agatha, now older, was talking to other women about fertility potions or rituals for Hera. Kharma, also an adult, was among them; her adult appearance reminded Zenodulos a lot of what he had recently experienced.

—All this has happened while I was unconscious...

That is correct.

—Everyone has forgotten about me.

That is human nature, their time marches on incessantly.

—It's not possible, please. I want to wake up.— The desperate boy pleaded.

Again rejecting the pleas of the bewildered young man, the ancestral spirit reveals the current condition of his body.

He who was once a child had already become a man. His entire adolescence, his puberty, and all the moments that accompanied them were now history. Time had passed and he was still trapped in the empty shell that was his body. Athens was the city where only he was missing.

His body was now emaciated, his skin was translucent and his bones protruded like dry winter branches, his veins tracing maps of a lost time on a worn surface that was his complexion. His hair was cut and his beard too, which showed that someone was taking care of him.

Zenodulos' childlike mind couldn't comprehend how time had gone on without him. The world had grown, had changed, while his "self" was the same as years ago.

—Please—he whispered—Take me out of here.

Don't you want to know why they didn't give up and bury you in such a state? Even after four years?

—No, I want to go back with everyone.

Generally, those in your condition simply die from lack of nutrients, but you were a special case, as if a supernatural being was taking care of you.

—Shut up, I just want to wake up.

Your owners took care of you, they took you to countless temples to be treated. However, as you can see, they were unsuccessful.

—I don't want to be forgotten, please.

Which reminds me, there is a memory that you might want to see...

Beside the emaciated Zenodulos was now his master, Cleon. The years had not been kind to him, and he was now almost as weak as his servant lying in bed. The wrinkles on his face were more prominent and his hands trembled incessantly.

—Zenodulos, I'm sorry for everything I did to you.—Cleon said with a trembling voice.

—You don't have to apologize, master.— Zenodulos' soul replied.

—Everything has changed around here. My dear Charis is no longer with us.—A tear fell from Cleon's face, forcing him to pause.— But your friend Kharma now sleeps with Agatha in her room. I am very happy to have her as a servant.

Cleon coughed forcefully. His health was deteriorating.

—I think I have the same illness that took Charis from us.—He whispered—There is something I want to tell you, I don't know if you can hear me.

—I can hear you, my master.

—Apologies are of no use. But before I leave, I want you to know something. Did I ever tell you how your parents became my slaves? — Cleon asked him, waiting in vain for an answer.

—I bought them both in the slave markets, they were being sold separately and I only needed one, but when they told me they had a son, I... I couldn't separate them. It was difficult to have you, but I don't regret anything.

A powerful cough interrupted him. His whole body trembled with each fit.

—Then... they both succumbed to a severe illness. I will never forget your mother's last words. She told me... to take care of you as if you were my own son. At that moment I should have freed you from slavery and adopted you. But... I only thought of myself. Then, I tried to get Demosthenes and you to get along, but it was futile. I wasn't a good father to him either. I forced him to marry at such a young age... I'm terrible

—You are not...

—I have... failed you. But while I still have breath, I can do something. I already talked to Demosthenes about this before he left for the barracks. But I want you to hear it yourself. —The old teacher paused again to catch his breath.—From today, you will no longer be my slave. Boy, from now on, the debt left by your parents has been absolved. Now, you are no longer "Zenodulos the slave" or "Zenodulos of Athens" as you called yourself in those letters. Now, you are Zenodulos, son of Moiras— The teacher announced proudly.

—My lord, thank you very much.

His newly freed servant approached Cleon and hugged him. His embrace was weightless and cold, like a caress of air. Possibly the old man didn't even feel it.

— My dear son of other parents. I want you to leave all your past behind, all the sadness and violence. And become a new man.

—I will, Cleon.

This was two months ago.

—I want to open my eyes. — Zenodulos murmured.

Then I will grant your wish.

And everything turned dark again.

Weak and his body languishing, Zenodulos felt the soft bed, softer than any he had ever slept on before. With great fatigue, he slowly opened his eyes. The ceiling of Cleon's house, illuminated by the rays of the morning sun, greeted him.

The young man, emaciated and weak, looked at his body with sadness. It was less than he had desired, but at least he was alive. He could now respond to his former master and begin his new life as a free man.

He tried to speak, but only a muffled sound came out of his mouth. He was too tired to even walk, but he persisted in his plea for help.

Inevitably, the door to the room opened and Kharma appeared in the doorway. Her eye widened when she saw Zenodulos, weakened but awake. Tears welled up in her eye and she ran towards him, enveloping him in a tight hug.

Kharma was an adult now, but she still had the same round face, with one dark, melancholic eye and the other an empty socket that she still hid with her hairstyle. Her hair was now more groomed than at their last meeting, to Zenodulos' surprise. Her dark hair reached her waist and she wore clothes of noticeably better quality, almost as clean and tidy as those of a free Athenian woman.

The former slave was grateful that fate had been more benevolent to his former colleague. A comforting situation without a doubt: after so much suffering, both Zenodulos and Kharma could enjoy a well-deserved peace. But nothing is eternal, not even harmony, much less in human hands.