by P. J. Atwater
in Issue 139, August 2023
The tavern at ancient Sicyon was a wooden structure. It was of a marvelous design conceived by an unnamed genius and made real by a team of unsurpassed carpenters. It resembled what might be called a large gazebo or patio, walled by vine trellises that broke up the wind but admitted the not-too-distant scents of the sea. The ingenious roof utilized minimal materials and the natural leaves of the vines to direct rainfall into a system of intricate and beautiful gutters. There is no evidence today that it was thus, since all carpentry, no matter how wondrous, is doomed to decay; but for the purpose of this tale, it must be assumed that these details are accurate.
A jaunt away, beside a small harbor, an old shipwright’s emporium and warehouse sat, abandoned by its master. It too was wooden, and it leaned on rotten posts held to salt-eaten nails. The whole thing shifted with a changing wind as a gust from the east swooped over the Gulf of Corinth. It rattled the warped shingles of the old warehouse and whistled through the trellis at the tavern. Cold black clouds covered the evening stars. Icy drops pattered against the vines, but inside it was dry and bright. The hard rain made only a faint drum on the roof and a light music in the gutters. The angry wind ran up against the sides, but the natural walls sheltered the inside from all but a tonal whistle. The braziers went on filling the space with their welcoming heat while they danced along to a chorus which only they seemed to hear above the sounds of human boasting.
The tavern was living with warm and bawdy men. The tavern-keeper, red-faced and smiling, hustled back and forth between the terrace and a cellar dug under the roots of an ancient oak. He wiped the cold rain absently from his shining pate, bellowing to be heard by his two slaves. One was moving his urn too slowly, the other too carelessly. The slow slave quickened his pace, slipped, and cracked the urn. Laughing drunkards crowded with their cups to catch the leak. The tavernman bemoaned the loss of so much unmixed wine, but forgot the loss when he heard calls for another urn.
Miltiades the Spartan looked past the Sicyonian revelers. He had no drink at present. He pretended he was gazing at nothing at all, but he could not save his eyes from lingering on a garish man who sat in the highest seat. Travian “the Flea” reclined, grinning and jolly as Dionysus himself. His colorful robes were stained with running wine; townsfolk clung to his massive arms and clapped his brutish shoulders. The nearest tables were crowded with folk who pressed their elbows across the planks to hear his boastful tales.
Euthymios sidled next to Miltiades with two fresh chalices. “The sight of an Athenian always makes me sad,” the old Sicyonian said, looking up at Travian.
Miltiades snorted.
“Ever since the war,” Euthymios went on. “You Spartan boys really broke their backs. A lad like you doesn’t remember, but Athens was something, once.”
Miltiades snorted again. He swirled the earthy, bitter wine beneath his nose. “Pity a braggart like that one,” he grumbled sarcastically, not motioning toward Travian on his perch.
“He’s telling the same tale again,” Euthymios said, amused.
“Which one? The one where an angry Persian shattered his club on his thick skull, and died of fright on the spot? Or the time he withstood the charge of a scythed chariot?”
“You have spent some time listening to the Flea’s tall tales.”
“I met him a little in Persia. We were with the Ten Thousand who marched with Cyrus and Xenophon. But I never saw any of his tales happen.”
“He is said to be as strong as Heracles,” Euthymios mused. “They call him ‘the Flea’ because no force can crush him.”
“They ought to name him after one of Hera’s peacocks.”
“Hm. Incidentally, he is still regaling us with his latest escapade. The ‘noble sacking’ of the temple of Zephyrus.”
The Spartan snorted a third time “A convenient tale, that one. It makes him both brave and pious, and in the same motion explains his empty hands.”
The two sat swallowing the bitter wine. Travian seemed to have finished his retelling, for the throng let out an adulatory roar and slathered him with offerings of drink. The smiling tavern-keeper and his two slaves hustled about. Miltiades felt Euthymios nudge him.
“I say, here comes another braggart. And they also call him ‘The Flea,’ you know.” At the entrance, Miltiades saw Agapenor slide in. “Do you suppose Sicyon’s Greatest Thief has heard of Travian’s great theft? I wonder how it sits with him to have a rival for the title?” Laughing, Euthymios waved at Agapenor.
“Don’t call him over,” Miltiades said. “If there’s one thing I hate worse than an Athenian, it’s a filcher; and a braggart is worse than all!”
“Listen, my young friend, I have no love for either myself; but I have an idea. It might be well to pit one Flea against the other. Maybe they will do us a kindness and crush each other!”
Miltiades smiled. “At the very least, that would be fun to watch. Hail, Agapenor! Sit with us!”
Agapenor the Flea sprung to their sides. Miltiades thought he came by his moniker rightly, for he was an insect of a man, spry and greasy, quick to flee and to hide. His a was a profoundly forgettable face – like his namesake, he could sit very still and very close, drawing no attention, then bound into hiding with a cut purse in hand. Miltiades studied him with veiled contempt, seriously wondering if his mother had bred with a flea to make him.
“What’re you boys up to?” Agapenor asked, bringing his wine to an empty seat.
Miltiades crossed Euthymios with a knowing look. He would follow the elder’s lead.
“We have been regaled with stories of derring-do by Greece’s greatest thief!” Euthymios exulted. He was putting on as if he was drunker than he was.
Agapenor lowered his chalice with a splish. “What? Who’s this?”
Euthymios motioned toward the Athenian, who was still at the center of attention. “Have you truly not heard of Travian?”
Agapenor raised a derisive eyebrow. “He is Greece’s greatest thief? He looks as if he could succeed as a highwayman, surely. But could he slip into an upper window, or sneak past a pack of dogs, at his size?”
“Don’t let his size deceive you,” Miltiades put in eagerly. “He is surpassing in gracefulness. They call him ‘the Flea,’ after all.”
Agapenor’s face showed the desired effect. Euthymios patted Miltiades’ arm in silent congratulation. “My friend,” he said, “we have forgotten! Agapenor used to also be called that.”
“Used to!”
“Don’t be upset,” Miltiades said, smiling. “They’ll come up with another moniker for you, now that Travian has it.”
Agapenor’s face was as dark as the clouds nobody had noticed outside. “Oh, they’ll be speaking about me…” he grumbled.
Euthymios traded another satisfied look with Miltiades. Then he said: “I pray you are not considering anything reckless… but since I know your pride will not allow you to stop, let us help you.”
“We will all go to Travian,” Miltiades agreed. “We’ll get him talking again. And while he is occupied, you may play whatever prank you are imagining.”
Agapenor grinned darkly. He was indeed planning something. “You’re good friends,” he told them.
“Think nothing of it. You know I can’t stand an Athenian.”
“With Zeus’s help, may you humiliate him,” Euthymios nodded cheerfully.
A moment later, Miltiades and Euthymios were at the front of the throng. Travian sat back, tipping his latest wine in salute to Euthymios, who had provided it. Then he nodded stiffly to Miltiades.
“I recognize you,” he said. “You were in all that business in Persia. A Cretan, weren’t you?”
“Spartan.”
“Oh. Well, you boys were as brave as any in the battle with Ataxerxes. Not a single Greek was killed, though we didn’t give an inch. We’d own half of Persia today, if only it wasn’t for what happened to Cyrus…”
“That’s true, I suppose.”
“Just imagine. Not one Greek fell, but the Prince of Persia leads from the front, and catches a javelin with his pretty face.” The Athenian chuckled. He swayed, gazing into his cup. His cheeks were redder than the mixed wine. “We were invincible! Yet it mattered nothing when the prince fell. All of it wasted, just like that… you just never know what the gods have in mind.”
Agapenor had pushed himself quietly to a seat by the Athenian’s side. A handful of Sicyonians exchanged mischievous glances, nudging each other and grinning at the infamous thief; but, as often happened, they were soon to forget he was there.
“That was at Cunaxa!” a drunkard yelled. “Where Travian stood alone against the charioteers!”
With a broad smile, Travian began to reply; but Euthymios was quick to interrupt. “I had hoped to hear of the sack of the temple.” Nudging Travian’s chalice he added, “After I paid for a wine, you know.”
Travian lifted the cup in another salute, drained it, and even as another was placed in his hand, he began his tale.
“I am just back from Ionia. It is well heard-of that the Ephesians have arrayed themselves against Athens: first, they betrayed our pact against Sparta, just when it seemed that the war might be tipping in their favor. Even more recently, they have given comfort to the Persians, who have proven that they are utterly godless and without honor. So, many of our generals went grumbling against Ephesus, and went to the Oracle to ask if we should attack them.
“The god said ‘If Athens aggresses against Ephesus, it shall go well, so long as no Greek shall bear arms within her temple.’ So the generals gathered us up and we sailed to Ionia. Just as the god promised, the sacking went well. Though we did not enter the city walls, we burned many villages and took many good things. The generals had warned us that sacking the temples was forbidden, and so we did not enter any shrine, at first.
“Yet I was at a village with some Athenians, and this village was home to a remarkable structure, which is home to Zephyrus, the Westerly Wind. The villagers were defenseless before us, and I myself slew their great champions in single combat, one by one. Everyone who was there would tell you there was no fiercer Greek in all the conflict than I. Yet our pillage was light, and when we heard there was great treasure stored in the temple, a few of us were tempted to break our vow with the generals and enter it.
“The temple sat atop a great mound, surrounded by Ionian colonnades and shut fortresslike by an oaken door. While we were discussing what to do, the others with me were quick to cow away. They said ‘We have heard that the inner shrine is well-guarded against any attempt. The wonders of Zephyrus lie behind fearsome champions, ingenious traps, and more insidious curses. And even if we succeed, we would risk angering the generals. Though we have taken little treasure, maybe it is best to go our way with our gains.’
“I laughed in their faces – it’s true, I did – I laughed at every one of them and said, ‘I see we are determined to prove what our detractors say against Athens – that we are jelly-kneed, and are quick to shirk from whatever we set out to do. Think – if they had fearsome champions to guard the temple, the priest should have sent them down to prevent the burning of the village, not hidden them away until they were the last fighting men remaining. As for the other dangers – traps and spells – I say that a priest is as quick to make empty boasts as any man. And as for the generals, I know the Oracle said ‘they shall not touch her temple.’ Clearly her temple refers to Artemis, whose temple famously lies within the city’s walls. So we shall not break our piety by going within; but just to show we are sensitive, let us go unarmed.’ And saying this I stripped my harness, untied my sword, and threw my spears and shield to the floor. Yet I could see that I had persuaded no one, so I mounted the steps alone.
“The door was a little bigger than a man, and of thick oak with brass casings. It was sealed, but even this did not deter me. My fingers found the seams – it was not tight – and with a great strain I heaved against it. I twisted until the brazen hinges bent and finally snapped. I tore the entire slab free of the portal, and with a final effort I cast it below to shatter at the bottom of the steps. Greeks went scattering, and everyone was struck with wonder at my might. But they still would not go with me; so I went inside alone.”
Travian paused. He scanned the audience to ensure everyone was sufficiently impressed by his deeds. Miltiades was the only one to roll his eyes – but he promptly rearranged his face to look as if he was as intent as everyone else. Euthymios seemed positively enrapt; Miltiades wondered if his friend had forgotten their plan – perhaps his drunkenness was not entirely an act. Even Agapenor enjoyed the storytelling – though under the folds of his robe he slowly stroked a pair of sharp iron shears. The Athenian’s purse hung carelessly in his view, and the tale only made him more determined to do some harm to Travian’s pride.
Travian went on. “I entered the atrium, with two corridors leading beyond. They looked identical; but I felt an unaccountable breeze from the corridor on my left. Remembering that this was the home of the Westerly Wind, I went that way. The passage was lined with exquisite columns, and the walls were carved with all the notable scenes from the history of Olympus. Even I admit, I was filled with awe at the sight.
“In the next chamber I was accosted by two Ionian hoplites! They spoke no word, but raised their spears and shields at once. Now I was sorry that I had come without arms, but it is well-known I am a match for a dozen Ionians, so I stayed cool. At the same time, I was glad I had come, for indeed I beheld the chamber was adorned with fabulous treasures. There was a priest next to the altar. Upon the altar rested a singular trinket: a small idol in the shape of Zephyrus’ horse. Carved of either opal or jade, it gave a strange blue light, as if it did not merely throw back the glare of the braziers but cast a light all its own. I instantly knew that its value would outshine all of the wealth and spoils of the entire village, and my only thought was to seize it for myself.
“First, however, I had to deal with the temple’s champions. The first one cast his spear at me, and I wished I still had the oaken door to hide behind! Instead, I ducked behind a column, and the spear did me no harm. The hoplites were rushing on. The thrower had already drawn his sword, and the other stood behind protecting him with his spear.
“I seized the spear that had missed me, and saw that its tip was flattened by hitting the stones. Regardless, I remembered my oath to bear no arms, so spinning the shaft, I threw it like a discus. The man in front raised his shield; observing the way he covered his eyes, I readjusted my throw at the last instant. The dull spear flew end-round-end and struck his legs with such force that he tumbled straight down onto his face. He landed awkwardly and crushed his nose against the edge of his shield.
“Now his fellow supposed I was open and off my footing, and he wound back his spear for a throw. But I observed a wide silk curtain hung from the wall; it was woven with images showing the trials of great Heracles – from his first labor all the way up to his fiery end, tearing at his own flesh in agony on the living pyre. Thinking it a suitable tool, I stripped it down all at once with a ferocious yank. Whirling it before me, I caught the spear in its folds. Then, before the fellow could reach for his sword, I cast the curtain over him like a fisher’s net. While he was yet draped in the silk I rushed him. I bowled him off his feet – his strength was like a child’s against mine! – then I gathered up the ends, and with him bundled inside I whirled the curtain round and round over my head. When I released him against a wall, the colonnade shattered. His armor did not save him; he was smashed into paste. The hoplite with the broken nose witnessed all this, and it cast him into such a terror that he fled the temple like a ship on the westerly wind!” he laughed at his own joke, and all but Miltiades and Agapenor joined his laughter. Miltiades overhead one Sicyonian say, “Indeed, the Flea is the very kin of Heracles!” He groaned. Agapenor heard others praising Travian’s grace and agility, using his moniker. He burned to correct them, but kept his discipline. He needed only for the Athenian to turn a little closer.
“After I had dispatched the champions, I turned upon the priest. He had not moved, but stood between two columns near the altar with his hand pressed against the wall. Were he not shaking like a leaf on a tree, I might have mistaken him for a painted statue. I admit I laughed at him when he warned me not to approach; I was full of good cheer after the fight against his hoplites. I remember hearing the wind whistling through cracks in the stone. It produced a high, flute-like music, and filled the chamber with drafts. At the time, I did not think anything of it. The priest tried to smile, but he still did not move at all. ‘I may warn, but I will not prevent you,’ he said.
“‘Certainly you won’t,’ I began to say, as I stepped in front of the altar. I was intent only on taking the horse-idol.
“I could not even finish my speech, for when I set foot before the dais, the priest threw a lever hidden in the niche. His purpose the whole time in standing there had been to keep me from seeing the toggle before I stepped into the trap. A great slab of the stone roof dislodged. The wind rushed in all at once, snuffing the lights. Now I knew the significance of that whistling the wind made in the cracks; it was the seams in the ceiling around the slab!
“In the dark I heard the priest shout ‘The Westerly Wind avenges his servants! He revenges himself on those who defile his house!’ I lowered my head and tried to run out of the way, but the ceiling was not more than two men’s height, giving time to only reach the edge. I felt the stone slab strike my shoulders. The priest laughed, supposing in the dark that I had been crushed all at once. But he did not know I am called ‘The Flea’ for a reason. It is not for my size, as you see;” some in the crowd chuckled agreeingly – he was enormous. “You who have caught a flea know that he is shelled – he is quick like a peltast but wears more armor than a little hoplite. Press him all day between your thumb and finger, but no force will crush or suffocate him. And when you tire, or release a little to see if he is dead, he springs away in a blink, unscathed.
“That is how it was when I felt the slab strike from above. I tensed my back, braced my hands against the stone. My knees bent slightly, I struggled for an instant. Even I thought then that I might succumb; but I was only partially under the slab, and near the edge as I was, I was soon able to push the stone off my back and topple it aside.
“The priest stopped laughing then. I could see him well enough, even though it had become dark and only the stars shone through the hole in the roof. The horse idol was the source of the light; I had not been fooled, but it gave off a blue light all its own. The priest of Zephyrus gaped like a fish; and like a fish his face went all bloodless. I suppose he was about to run, and I might have let him; but I was so seized with fury that I shook him about the shoulders, and in a flash I had dashed his brains across the altar.
“Gleeful I took my glowing prize, exulting in my strength and valor. I found an emberbox and went around to relight the censers, kindling them carefully. I wanted to lay eyes on the rest of my spoils.
“A curious change came over me when I looked around in the light. The treasures were glorious to behold. They included many precious baubles – but also simple artworks crafted in the village. Living in poverty as they did, I saw how much devotion with which the villagers laid their best offerings before their patron god – one of the humble Anemoi. I had never expected to be so moved in all my life. I won’t deny, I nearly wept when I saw how piously they doted on the god of the westerly wind.
“I knew then that I could not undertake to plunder the sanctum. I returned the idol to its proper place, and left in remorse. Some of my fellows were still about, waiting to see if I would succeed. I told them that the truth was there was nothing of note inside the temple; that the traps, guardians, and curses all were rumor – and the treasure was just as fictional. They did not grumble much, saying that it was just as well, for they were not counting on any spoils from the temple, and did not wish to anger the gods by riding the sea laden with the property of the Anemoi.
“The generals did not learn of my transgression, and all who knew of it agreed that I had not violated the words of the Oracle since I had done my murders without arms. Then there was a ferocious storm on the sea, and many of our brothers sank to Poseidon with all their loot. The storm came on a westerly wind, and some who knew of my trespass supposed later that it had been Zephyrus chasing us home to Athens; but as you see, my ship did not sink. Without my great strength at the oar and the rope, we would not have stayed afloat.”
That was the last Travian spoke. The Sicyonians clapped him across the back, and more pitchers were brought. Not a soul had heard the tale fewer than twice, yet they all remarked what a virtuous and well-told tale it was (recall to mind that they were drunk). They praised his valor, and his wit, and his might; they said with tears in their eyes what a beautiful thing it was that he had decided against stealing from the god. Miltiades spat, not believing a single word; but nobody noticed him. Then Euthymios moved close to the Flea, and nudged him sharply to get his attention.
“I say,” the old man said languidly. “I think that little man over there has taken your purse.”
Travian looked to his waist, then looked up to where the old Sicyonian was pointing. Agapenor was running into the night, with the cold rain and a westerly wind whipping at his flying robes. With a grunt he sprang to his feet.
“Relax, Travian, it’s just Agapenor. We’ll find him in the morning,” one reveler said.
“What need do you have of your coins when everyone is buying you wine?” another agreed.
Travian acted as if he did not hear them. His only response was to throw them savagely aside, and anyone else who strayed into his way to the street. Miltiades and Euthymios were at the front of the crowd who rushed after him, eager to see what would happen next; but when they saw the weather, they stopped. Suddenly, a shrill gale tore the leaves from the trellises and rocked the censers on their tripods. The revelers agreed it was time to go home.
“Surely there will be something worth seeing in the morning,” said Euthymios, and Miltiades agreed.
Travian burst onto the thoroughfare and hesitated. He did not feel the rain, the hail or the raging wind; but the night was black under the storm. Then Zeus threw a blazing bolt to light the city for an instant, and Travian caught sight of the hem of the thief’s cloak just as it vanished down an avenue. Barking like Artemis’ hounds, he sprinted. The muck sucked at his boots and the wind pressed him back, but he paid no mind to any impediment. He was like a bull in his fury who might drag along a score of men by their lariats.
He came to the avenue down which the thief had hoped to disappear. He grinned viciously to find it was thick with mud. He bounded along the clear trail of footprints. Another flash from Zeus’ bolt showed the roiling harbor, afrenzy with rocking boats. A great dockside warehouse was outlined against the sea. It sagged under the rain and tilted under the wind. He tracked the trail up to a small door. Tugging the handle, he found it barred. With both hands on the handle, a second tug tore out the brackets that held the bar in place; even as the handle splintered loose in his grip, he wrenched the door from its hinges and cast it with a splash into the street.
He took his first step and stumbled. His foot was caught on a length of fishing line that spanned the doorframe. He landed hard on his front foot, and beheld a sharpened stake an inch from his nose. It was planted among others, wedged into the boards, to catch his fall. Had he fully tripped, it would have. With a growl he jerked his foot forward, tearing the line loose from its moorings. Sweeping the stakes aside balefully, he went in. Zeus lit the room with another of his fiery spears.
He saw he was in a great chamber filled with towering crates. They were stacked to form walls up to the rafters, with a sprawling path in between. A veritable labyrinth of crates great and small lay before him, worthy of Daedalus himself. As the afterimage faded from his vision, he saw a dull light emanating from somewhere beyond the maze. A slight gasp was heard, and the light was snuffed. He recognized the hue of that light, and charged forward. Rather than run into the maze, he laid hold of the crate directly in front of him. Digging his fingertips into the rotting wood, he rocked back and forth. The wall teetered and collapsed. He hoisted himself atop the rubble and ran along. When a box was in his way, he tore it loose and threw it aside. When that was not possible, he leapt and climbed. When that was not easy, he plowed his way through with fists. Zeus filled the air with thunder. The wind howled a discordant tune through the slats. Rain leaked through dozens of holes and slipped away between the floorboards. The old building shuddered and groaned.
Travian leapt down the far side of the labyrinth and landed in a space filled with wood columns. The planks groaned and splintered under his feet, and lapping waves rose up to splash at him, for this section was built overhanging the harbor. He felt a tug at his foot, and with a roar he snapped another tripwire. Lightning fell outside in a blistering salvo. When Echo had finished her mimicking of all the fury, he paused, and listened.
A brush of linen against a nail was all the indication he needed. He followed the sound. He learned to detect the tripwires, or to preternaturally predict where they would be, and bounded over them, avoiding the spikes.
He rounded into a narrow space between heaps of crates. A wood-tipped spear, not dissimilar to the sharpened stakes, rose to meet him. It plunged past his defenses and struck a wound in his chest.
Just then, Zeus struck the roof with his thunderbolt. Embers showered from high above as the heat spread from the damp shingles and the rafters caught and burned weakly. A gust struck the siding, and the whole shelter leaned an inch.
Travian the Flea grimaced at the spear that lay planted in his breast. It had pierced the flesh to the bone, but no deeper. Agapenor the Flea, the little Sicyonian, held the other end. He pressed forward and twisted the spear, seeking to drive it deeper. With one hand gripping high on the shaft, Travian halted it.
Seeing that he could not win, Agapenor dropped the spear and threw up his hands. “I see you come by your moniker justly,” he said meekly, stepping away. “I yield; take what is yours; take the name; I will not bother you again.”
Travian spoke no word. He was like the men of myth who are transfigured into the form of beasts; he was transported fully by rage and his mind was polluted by wine beyond any place for speech or reason. He pulled the spear loose from his breast. Still with one hand, without turning the point around he plunged the butt into Agapenor’s naval. The force lifted the Sicyonian from his feet and sent him curled on his side, breathless. Travian hurled the spear away. It cracked against a wood pillar. The roof shuddered and leaned inward. Lightning struck the sea. The wind whistled its tuneless dirge. The fire in the rafters slowly spread.
Travian advanced into the narrow space. Finding it awkward for his size, he heaved against the stack of crates at his right and slid it away. Agapenor rolled and scrambled. He emerged into a wider space. Travian stalked behind him. Apparently cornered, Agapenor reseized his breath and rolled to his feet, pulling the pair of shears, his last weapon, free. He brandished them menacingly, knifelike.
Travian stomped forth into the latest enclosure. The planks squealed and splintered under his heels. He struck something pliant with his face, and found it to be an old fishing net that was draped across his path. Agapenor had cunningly rolled under it; now he rushed forth with the shears and struck him a smarting wound.
Travian reeled back, and the net came loose with him. He untangled himself hastily, and was wont to cast it aside, but he remembered the tapestry of Heracles at the Ephesian temple. He tossed the net out, and snared the Sicyonian before he could follow up his charge with another strike. Agapenor panicked and struggled against the net.
Now, just as he had in the Ephesian temple, Travian the Flea gathered up the ends of the net. Thrusting desperately, Agapenor struck him a dozen more wounds to his hands and arms; but he would not relent. Just as he had in Ephesus, he swung the net round and round above his head. Just as he had in Ephesus, he released, and the man in the net went sailing. He collided with a pillar, which burst in two against the impact. The whole section of roof above them leaned perilously. Rain came gushing through a score of new leaks. The wind gusted against the canting wall. Zeus peppered the outside with lightning.
In his wine-fogged brain, Travian began at this late moment to sense that the environment was unstable. He rushed to the spot where Agapenor lay groaning, still bound in the net. He tore the fibers loose, he freed the Sicyonian, and he tore the Sicyonian’s life from him with his bare, bleeding fingers. Then he rifled the dead man’s robes, and found the stolen purse. He peeked inside, just to see that the precious object was there. A mad gale struck with force fit to twist the beams, and Zeus filled the heaven with fiery thunder.
Travian sprang toward the front of the warehouse. The floorboards bowed and rose in his path; he leapt aside and over them. The pillars twisted under the blast of a furious wind until they unwound into slivers. A smoldering section of roof came down, spilling with it a torrent of rain; Travian dodged by. The light of the embers showed him the way.
A beam fell and struck him across the back. He staggered under the impact, but shrugged it off. His foot plunged through and he felt the icy sea licking his toes. He heaved himself free, cleaving his treasure against his sore and bleeding breast. He was almost there. He would let nothing prevent his escape.
The door was in sight. He was over the section built on solid ground. He could nearly reach the door. A few more steps and he could grasp the doorframe.
The westerly wind let another gale, and the whole roof came down.
The morning was pleasant, and a crowd milled in front of the ruins of the old warehouse. It was the only structure that had been badly damaged. People were glad to see the eyesore was finally gone.
“Someone was bound to get himself killed in that rickety thing,” someone said.
“That was where that no-account made his home. The Flea.”
“Who? The Athenian?”
“No, no, no! Agapenor.”
“Oh, that Flea. Well, shall we pray that he was inside?”
“No chance. He’s Greece’s Greatest Thief, after all. We’ll be seeing that slippery cutpurse again, or I’m a braggart.”
Euthymios and Miltiades strolled to the edge of the ruin. “Looks like we missed something,” Euthymios said with regret.
Miltiades nudged some rubble with his toe. “If anything’s likely, those two just throttled each other in an alley across town.”
“Hold, now,” Euthymios said, “What is that?”
Miltiades leaned close and squinted. He had pushed aside some wreckage with his toe, revealing something underneath.
“What is it?” Miltiades asked.
“By Zeus, it is the hand of Travian!”
Some nearby gawkers heard this and gasped. A crowd formed. Miltiades got closer, climbing with care over the rubble. The hand was white and badly cut in many places. Not far away, his round eyes stared dumbly from a battered face wreathed in wreckage. His gaze was frozen on the clear heavens. All the blood had washed out into the sea.
“He’s cold,” Miltiades declared, touching the wrist with his fingers. A murmur rose from the throng.
“Too bad,” Euthymios clucked. “There’s one tale the Flea won’t tell. So much for being uncrushable. So much for all his tales, I guess. So much for his might and valor.”
“Now wait,” said Miltiades. “I marched with him in Persia, remember. Maybe none of his stories were true, but he was still a fine soldier. I never said that he wasn’t a fine soldier.”
“Was he holding something?” an onlooker called, pointing.
Miltiades looked. Something had indeed tumbled from the Flea’s rigid fingers when Miltiades had disturbed the wreckage.
“It’s his purse,” the Spartan said, lifting it. He handed it to Euthymios, who promptly looked inside.
“Let’s see how much money he died over…” the old man paused. “By Zeus..!”
“What?” Miltiades crossed the rubble and looked in. The crowd pressed and demanded a chance to see.
Miltiades and Euthymios ignored them. They gazed long into the pouch, wondering deeply at what they saw. Their faces were washed in a faint, blue glow from within.
“What do we do with it?” Euthymios said at last.
“What else?” Miltiades replied. “Send it back to Ephesus!”
© August 2023, P J Atwater
P J Atwater‘s work has appeared in Tales from the Magician’s Skull, and in previously in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.