Phobia ☤ Alexios

twenty-two: hekatoncheir trap

☤ ☤ ☤

THE STORM PUSHES the Adrestia off-course and it is not until midday that they find their heading once more and soon after they dock. Irene looks around the dark soil and smoke billowing from the peak of one low-lying mountain. "Where are we?" She asks, having never ventured to this part of Hellas before. 

"This is Melos," Barnabas remarks in his usual cheerful tone —nothing could dampen the old sailor's spirits. "One of the Playgrounds of Ares." That explains the volcanoes then Irene thinks, catching a whiff of sulfur. Ikaros lands on the railing between her and Alexios. 

"We restock and rest here," Alexios announces. The storm takes its toll on his crew. Many are already asleep above and below deck from manning the oars to keep from crashing into rocks during the storm. They need to gather supplies for minor repairs, restock barrels with potable water, and rest before continuing to Lakonia.

Irene, Iola, and Eppie take to the small agora —seeking out hearty foods capable of lasting weeks at sea. Alexios seeks a blacksmith or merchant to sell or trade the armor he'd found in a chest on the pirate's war galley before the Aegean claimed it. The blacksmith of Melos is a grizzly fellow that stands a whole head taller than Alexios —his arms and neck thick and strong as trunks on young trees. "What can I do for you today, misthios?" He inquires.

The Eagle Bearer places the set of armor on the anvil and walks away with three heavy pouches of drachmae. He passes through the square and pauses to listen to a richly-clothed man speaking to a small gathering. "Warriors! Heroes! Mercenaries of all types!" He shouts. "Sign up here for the Battle of One Hundred Hands. Would you like to be rich? Are you the next Champion?" The man asks before catching a glimpse of Alexios in the crowd. "You, misthios. You look like a true contender."

He returns to the Adrestia with a fresh glint in his eyes that reeks of mischief. Either he's done something or is about to do something reckless. Irene passes a basket of fruit to Tyche and crosses her arms as she turns to face Alexios. "What have you done now?" She asks, immediately seeing through his innocent feint.

"There's a contest," he explains, gripping onto her hands, "if I win, we will be that much closer to eliminating another cultist."

As soon as he says it, everything clicks in place for the princess. Melos. Contest. The Battle of One Hundred Hands. "Alexios! You fool!" Irene scolds. She knows this infamous contest, where thousands have come willingly to die in pursuit of glory and riches.

"I thought you had more faith in me," Alexios smiles, and by the gods that charming smile could almost get him out of anything. She does not doubt his skills in battle, only his ability to face a hundred warriors with nothing to lose and everything to gain.

"And what am I supposed to tell your mother if you don't make it?" Irene queries, crossing her arms. She doesn't want to be the one to tell Myrrine her son died like so many others in a futile competition. He may fight like Achilles —Ares even— but even the mightiest of men can be slain by one arrow.

The princess follows Alexios back into the agora where she finds herself staring up at an oddly familiar face. "Drakios," Irene greets, recognizing the merchant —though now his hair and beard are greyer since the last time he had visited Athens. Her frown starts to fade.

He steps down from the platform. Arms open and smiling. "That is not Irene of Athens is it?" Irene offers a smile and accepts the two quick kisses he places upon her cheeks in greeting. Alexios steps next to the princess, gripping onto her hand —invidious. "How is your brother?" Drakios questions.