Chapter 9 - THE FEVER
Myrine’s fever climbed through the night.
By dawn, she no longer insulted anyone.
That frightened Leandros more than blood.
She lay beneath a thin linen sheet in the kiln room while Nikias moved in and out with water.
No swelling beneath her arms.
No dark sores.
Her throat hurt.
Her eyes burned.
She vomited whenever she drank too quickly.
Nikias wrote every change.
Leandros hated the scratching of the stylus.
“What does writing help?”
Nikias did not look up.
“It helps me remember when fear changes memory.”
“I don’t care about memory.”
“You will.”
“I care about her.”
“So do I.”
Nikias finally looked at him.
“That is why I write.”
Leandros sat outside the door.
He did not touch Myrine unless Nikias asked.
This was harder than fighting a mob.
In a fight, there was movement.
Something to hit.
Something to avoid.
Sickness required waiting.
Waiting was torture without a weapon.
Timon brought water.
Ione washed cloth.
Philon cooked thin barley porridge Myrine refused.
Damon came after guard duty and sat in courtyard without speaking.
Nobody told Leandros everything would be fine.
For that he was grateful.
At midday, Menon’s followers arrived.
Not the whole faction.
Six.
No weapons raised.
Their leader was a woman Leandros had seen at the temple.
She wore red paint across her forehead.
“We heard the girl is sick.”
Leandros stood.
“Leave.”
The woman looked toward kiln room.
“Menon says this is a sign.”
“Of course he does.”
“Athena’s chosen household is being judged.”
Leandros laughed.
He could not help it.
His sister burned with fever ten paces away and grown people still needed theater.
“What does he want?”
“The girl brought to Apollo’s altar.”
“No.”
“He will pray.”
“No.”
“He has sacred water.”
Nikias stepped into courtyard.
“From which well?”
The woman frowned.
“What?”
“Sacred water. Which well?”
“Temple cistern.”
Nikias shook his head.
“I examined it last week. Dead mouse.”
The followers looked uncertain.
Leandros almost smiled.
The woman hardened.
“Mocking the god will not save her.”
Nikias answered,
“Neither will mouse water.”
Leandros stepped closer.
“She stays.”
The woman looked at owl pendant.
“If she dies, people will know.”
“Know what?”
“That Athena rejected you.”
There it was.
Not concern.
Politics.
Leandros touched pendant.
“Good.”
The woman blinked.
“Good?”
“Yes.”
He ripped cord from his neck.
The bronze owl lay in his palm.
Everyone stared.
Leandros had carried it since Thaleia died.
No.
Since he left her to die.
The difference mattered.
He walked to the woman.
Held owl out.
“Take it.”
She stepped back.
“What?”
“You want a sign.”
He placed pendant on ground.
“There.”
The woman stared.
Leandros continued.
“My mother gave it to me. Not Athena.”
His voice shook.
“She died anyway.”
Damon stood.
Timon too.
“Tell Menon I am not chosen.”
The woman’s face hardened.
“He will say you renounced the goddess.”
“Then he can say it.”
She left without touching pendant.
The owl remained in dust.
Leandros stared at it.
Myrine called weakly from kiln room,
“You better pick that up.”
He turned.
Her eyes were open.
He rushed to doorway.
“Don’t come closer,” she whispered.
“You’re awake.”
“Obviously.”
“How do you feel?”
“Like Menon looks.”
Damon laughed outside.
Leandros almost cried.
Nikias checked her.
Fever still high.
But she was speaking clearly.
Small mercy.
By evening, rumor had spread anyway.
Leandros rejected Athena.
Myrine’s illness was divine judgment.
Or Apollo’s attack.
Or proof owl pendant had protected her and Leandros foolishly discarded it.
Every version contradicted the others.
Every version attracted believers.
Leandros picked up the pendant after sunset.
Not because he feared goddess.
Because it was Thaleia’s.
That distinction finally became clear.
He tied it around his wrist instead of neck.
Family.
Not prophecy.
Myrine worsened second night.
Blood came from nose.
Her breathing became fast.
Nikias cooled her skin with damp cloth.
Timon asked,
“Can we do anything else?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“Water. rest. keep her clean.”
Timon slammed fist against wall, then cried because it was broken hand.
Nikias looked at him.
“Now you understand why people invent cures.”
Timon sat.
“Yes.”
“Do you still want one?”
“Yes.”
“So do I.”
Nikias’s voice softened.
“The danger is not wanting it.”
He looked at Myrine.
“The danger is pretending wanting makes it real.”
Leandros sat beside door until dawn.
He remembered Thaleia.
Her face hot.
Dark swelling.
Her hand pressing owl into his palm.
Go.
He had thought survival meant distance from the sick.
Now he understood she had given him distance so he could choose later.
She had not wanted him to die proving love.
That thought hurt.
Myrine whispered,
“Leandros.”
“I’m here.”
“If I die—”
“No.”
She closed eyes.
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Impossible.”
“I mean it.”
“No.”
She opened them.
“I don’t want a big funeral.”
Leandros stared.
“Myrine.”
“Wood is expensive.”
He laughed and cried at once.
She smiled faintly.
“Also don’t let Menon talk.”
“He won’t.”
“Promise.”
“I thought you said no funeral.”
“If there is one.”
“No.”
She looked angry.
Good.
Anger meant energy.
“Leandros.”
He moved closer to threshold.
“I won’t let him use you.”
“Good.”
“What else?”
“Give my sandals to Ione.”
Ione, outside, said,
“I don’t want your sandals.”
“They’re better than yours.”
“True.”
Myrine smiled.
Then slept.
At noon, Nikias touched her forehead.
Stopped.
Leandros saw his face.
“What?”
Nikias touched again.
“Lower.”
“What?”
“Fever.”
“Lower?”
“Yes.”
Leandros stared.
“Why?”
Nikias looked almost annoyed.
“I don’t know.”
Of course.
Myrine drank water and kept it down.
By evening, she ate two spoonfuls porridge.
Next morning, fever returned.
Leandros nearly broke.
Then it fell again.
Three days became four.
Myrine remained alive.
Outside, plague killed hundreds.
Inside, one child moved uncertainly toward survival.
No reason.
No divine proof.
No blood cure.
No wise physician’s triumph.
Her body simply endured.
On the fifth morning, Myrine sat up.
Nikias shouted at her to lie down.
She ignored him.
“I need piss.”
Leandros started laughing.
Nikias looked offended.
“I am surrounded by philosophers.”
They helped her to courtyard.
Sunlight hurt her eyes.
She was thin.
Weak.
Alive.
People in workshop saw.
Word spread before anyone could stop it.
The owl girl survived.
Leandros groaned.
By afternoon citizens gathered outside.
Not violent.
Worse.
Hopeful.
They wanted touch.
Blessing.
Blood.
Prayer.
One woman held sick infant.
“Please!”
Myrine stared through door.
“No.”
Leandros blocked entrance.
“They will crush her.”
Nikias went outside.
He told crowd truth.
Myrine had fever.
She survived.
He did not know why.
No cure.
No proof she could protect anyone.
People shouted.
“Then what did you give?”
“Water.”
“What herb?”
“Some.”
“Which god?”
Nikias laughed bitterly.
“None sent instructions.”
A man screamed,
“You hide cure!”
Again.
Always.
Timon stepped outside.
Leandros tensed.
Timon raised broken hand.
“I believed blood could save us.”
Crowd recognized him.
Some hated him.
Good.
He continued.
“I took blood from people who did not consent.”
Silence.
“I was wrong.”
Nikias looked at him.
Timon continued,
“Myrine’s survival proves nothing except that some survive.”
A woman shouted,
“Then why her?”
Timon looked toward doorway.
“I do not know.”
People hated that.
Leandros knew.
But something had changed.
Not everyone shouted.
Some listened.
A father holding feverish boy began crying.
Nikias approached him.
“Bring him here.”
Leandros stared.
Nikias looked back.
“We have space in courtyard if we keep distance.”
“More sick?”
“Yes.”
“It could spread.”
“Yes.”
“You said crowding—”
“I know.”
Leandros felt panic.
Myrine had just survived.
Now Nikias wanted sick people near her.
Myrine appeared behind him.
Weak.
Leaning on Ione.
“Let them.”
Leandros turned.
“No.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You ran into mobs.”
“Stop using that.”
“You touched a sick man at temple.”
“Stop.”
“You brought Timon home.”
“That was clearly a mistake.”
Timon called,
“I hear you.”
Myrine looked at sick child.
“Let them.”
Leandros wanted to refuse.
To close door.
To guard sister.
He understood frightened households now.
Maybe those who burned infected houses began with same love.
Protection warped by fear.
He looked at Thaleia’s owl tied around wrist.
Then opened gate.
Not everyone.
Three patients.
Families remained outside.
Nikias set rules.
Water jars separate.
Cloths boiled.
Waste carried away.
Hands washed.
Beds apart.
No promises.
The workshop became a care house.
Not hospital.
Athens had no word for what it was becoming.
Three patients became six.
Six became nine.
Some died.
Some survived.
No pattern Leandros could see.
Nikias kept writing.
Myrine recovered slowly.
She rolled cloth again before she could walk straight.
Damon complained.
She insulted him.
Normal returned in fragments.
Then Menon came alone.
No paint.
No followers.
Leandros barely recognized him.
He stood outside gate shaking.
Sweat covered face.
Nikias saw first.
“Fever.”
Menon looked at Leandros.
“Help me.”
Silence.
Every memory returned.
Torches.
Workshop attack.
Thaleia insult.
Divine threats.
Leandros could close gate.
Nobody would blame him.
That frightened him.
Myrine stood beside him.
She said nothing.
Leandros looked at Menon.
Then opened gate.
“Inside.”
Menon began crying.
Not gratitude.
Fear.
Human fear.
May you like
He entered the same courtyard he once tried to burn.
And Athens, for one moment, did not become worse.
